


The AS/S-verse

by beetle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Post, Post - Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:05:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James is the worst brother in the world, Albus is mortified, and Scorpius is, of course, there because he chooses to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Untitled Post-Deathly Hallows Epilogue Fic

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Didn't do it.  
> Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e, by six years. Canon compliant. Spoilers, duh.

"You are the  _worst_  brother in the history of the world. Ever!" Al seethes, meaning every word.  
  
  
James grins infuriatingly from his extra height of four piddling inches, and his extra piddling year. Claps Al on the shoulder--ignoring that his hand is slapped away--and twirls his Beater's bat like a baton. "You only say that because you fancy the little prig."  
  
  
" _Shhh!_ " Al drags James snickering away from the entrance to the locker-room by one Quidditch-toned arm. If his fingernails weren't so bitten-down, he'd be shredding cloth and breaking skin. "What a wizard tells his brother over smuggled Firewhisky is sacrosanct--"  
  
  
"Is  _what_?"  
  
  
"Out of bounds, you Quaffle!" James is one of the few people who can make Al lose his temper. Conversely, Lily's one of the few people that can soothe that temper, even make him laugh. Too bad she isn't here. “Much like Prefects should be 'out of bounds' for your juvenile pranks!”  
  
  
James rolls his eyes and plucks Al's hand off his arm the way he'd swat a fly. "Listen, you never got your back up when I played pranks on your scaly little Housemates before, Prefects, or not. So be honest: the only thing that makes Malfoy special is the fact that you think he's so pret--"  
  
  
"Sacrosanct! Sacrosanct!" There doesn't seem to be anyone else in the nearby--the hardest driving Captain since Oliver Wood, and the best Beater in nearly a century, James is the first on the pitch for practice and the last off it. Has been since his second year--but you can never be too careful. All Al needs is for word of this . . . conversation to get around and his ship is sunk. So's his tentative, five-and-a-half-years-in-the-making quasi-friendship with Scorpius. "I can't believe Professor Thomas made  _you_  Head Boy."  
  
  
"Me neither, really," James says thoughtfully, or as close as he'll ever come to it. In moments like this, he looks astonishingly like Uncle Ron. "Actually, I think House standards are rather slipping a bit, between you and me--oh, for Merlin's sake, stop looking at me like that!  _Accio_  Series VII!"  
  
  
"I'll look at you however I want,” Al sulks, ducking James' Firebolt and shooting him another evil look. As evil a look as his--admittedly wholesome--face can support. “Not that I had much of a chance with him, but you've wrecked that. Though I suppose it's a miracle it took you  _this_  long to--"  
  
  
James sighs loudly. "Blimey, you're really in high dudgeon over that poncy little gi--"  
  
  
Al's got his wand out and poking James in the chest before he can finish the word. "He's not poncy, and he's not a git!  _You're_  the git, you--big git!"  
  
  
James makes a face and rolls his eyes, bat and broom held up in surrender. "Alright, alright--put it away, Salazar, before you take someone's eye out! His Nibs is perfectly fine. I left him trussed up in the Great Hall."  
  
  
Al blinks. Starts to lower his wand, then prods James in the shoulder with it, earning an annoyed  _steady on, bollocks!_  "You tied him up? Wanker! What else did you do to him?”  
  
  
Making a face like he's tasted something bad, James pushes Al's wand away. "You'll see. Better be the hero while you can--the house elves'll be setting the tables any minute, now. If you hurry, he'll be swooning in your manly arms before supper,” he adds with weary resignation.  
  
  
There are several moments during which Al can't believe it's going to be this simple. (Not because James really  _is_  the worst brother in the world, but because he's never approved of Al's fascination with Scorpius Malfoy. Has repeatedly, unsubtly, tried to set Al up with practically every even slightly bent bloke at Hogwarts who wasn't in Slytherin. Including Aidann Brown-Finnigan, who's only a Fourth Year, and more than  _slightly_  bent. Nance as two handfuls of pink galleons, might be a more apt description.)  
  
  
But it really is this simple. James has all but given a promise of non-interference with, if not tacit approval of Al's choice of potential boyfriend.  
  
  
Because even though he goes about his brotherly duties in a cack-handed sort of way, James really  _is_  a good brother. Most of the time.  
  
  
“Er . . . thanks, Jamie.”  
  
  
James waves away his thanks almost angrily. “I still think he's an utter git, but if that's who you want, then I wish you joy of him.”  
  
  
They stand there awkwardly till Lily, and one of the other Gryffindor Chasers breezes in, giggling like two first year Hufflepuffs. James clears his throat gruffly. “Well. Go  _on_ , then. Faint heart never won fair Malfoy, did it?”  
  
  
Al hesitates a moment longer, and bounces up on his toes to kiss James on the cheek. Then he's off and running to the Castle, leaving James to swipe at his face and grouse about blood not being thicker than House loyalties.   
  
  
And Lily to belatedly shout something about needing help with her Arithmancy assignments.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Al may as well have been riding James' Series VII, he reaches the Great Hall so quickly.  
  
  
He skids to a stop in the entryway to have a quick look around--he  _is_  a Slytherin, after all, no sense running in like half-struck one o'clock . . . like a Gryffindor--but doesn't see a blessed thing except for some cheeky girl sitting in Headmaster Flitwick's chair.  
  
  
Of Scorpius there's no sign.  
  
  
All good feeling for his brother is forgotten in that moment. He's been had.  
  
  
 _I'm going to hex your hair fuschia for the next five years, James Sirius Potter, and that's a bloody oath, from me to you._  
  
  
“I beg your pardon, have you seen Scorpius Malfoy in here?” he calls out to the girl. Doesn't really notice when she doesn't answer. He's too busy wondering if James  _had_  been telling the truth, but Scorpius somehow managed to throw off whatever hexes had been cast. . . .  
  
  
(James has many strong areas--Transfiguration, Quidditch, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Quidditch, Care of Magical Creatures, Quidditch . . . and of course, Quidditch--but Charms isn't one of them. Scorpius, on the other hand, is better at it than anyone in their year, and almost everyone in James'.)  
  
  
Perhaps James was counting his phoenix before it'd risen. What if he'd only  _thought_  he hexed Scorpius, when really--  
  
  
“Merlin's Bones,” he swears, stopping dead in his tracks about two thirds of the way to the High Table, and the oddly still witch in the Headmaster's chair. He takes off his glasses and wipes them on his robes--though he performs  _Oculus Sano_  on them at least eight times a day--then puts them back on.  
  
  
 _Well, I guess the queue to murder James'll be forming behind Scorpius, after all_ , he thinks, torn between the appropriate horror, and quite inappropriate fascination.  
  
  
He stumbles forward the rest of the way then hops onto onto the dais, stifling giggles, and other reactions of a more disturbing nature. In short order, he's kneeling at Scorpius' side, staring into a familiar face made strange, before he realizes he doesn't know what to say. Confronted by shoulder-length blond ringlets, pink bows, and silvery-blue robes like something out of the fashion section of the  _Witch Weekly_  . . . he's not sure a phrase exists for this sort of situation.  
  
  
Not that simply staring is a terrible chore. Though Scorpius' closed eyes are layered in awful frosted eyeliner and heavy mascara, the spare, curving mouth is impeccably incarnadined. He looks both ludicrous and luscious all at once.   
  
  
Very, very touchable. . . .  
  
  
Al doesn't know whether he's leaning up to wipe off the makeup, or steal a kiss when he hears several distinct  _pop_ s behind him.  
  
  
The house elves have set the tables. Their friends and professors will start arriving soon.  
  
  
"Oh, bugger. Scorpius? Malfoy? Wake up!" Al tugs on his hair--quite aware that this does nothing good for his general appearance. He shakes Scorpius' shoulder, then pats his face gently. This doesn't get so much as a disdainful glance--not even a bored yawn, and Al kicks himself. Fumbles out his wand, cursing James and Gryffindors in general. " _Finite_!"  
  
  
The ringlets and bows disappear, as does the caked-on makeup. Scorpius' robes return to their normal black with green-and-silver trim, and their wearer slumps, letting out a soft breath.  
  
  
“I ran here as soon as I found out--er, I didn't have any part in this, you know.“ He stutters to a stop as Scorpius takes a deep breath.  
  
  
 _Now_  the full force of that infamous Malfoy glare will be leveled on Al, followed by several hexes just for being related to the perpetrator. Now--  
  
  
Scorpius' eyes open and he blinks a few times, looking around the Hall, then at Al, who is as one transfixed. He smiles, a gentle, amused sort of thing, that makes Al's heart  _Disapparate_  into his throat.  
  
  
"Do be so good as to untie my bonds, would you, Potter?" Scorpius holds out his long, elegant hands; a rather unnecessary length of rope lashes them together.  
  
  
"Right. Er-- _Evanesco_." Al's voice cracks up into First Year registers and he blushes. Watches Scorpius rub fine-boned wrists. "You don't seem too put out about all this, Malfoy."  
  
  
"Indeed." Pale lashes shutter amused, quartzite eyes, and his smile turns rather dry. "It's too bad your permanently  _Confund_ ed brother and his friends chose now to start this nonsense up. Nevertheless. I could've blocked those travesties they called hexes before they drew their wands. I'm here because  _I_  chose to be here, for my own reasons."  
  
  
Is it purely imagination, or does Scorpius' voice--lower, even, than James'--drop a bit lower? Does the pale, lucid grey of his eyes darken with . . . something?  
  
  
Al swallows. "W-what reasons would those b-be?"  
  
  
Scorpius' eyes flash, and his mouth is still curving and lovely, even without all the lipstick. "That, Potter, would be telling."  
  
  
 _He's flirting with me, isn't he? I'm pretty sure he is . . . only I don't know how to flirt back. Brilliant. I've been waiting a year for him to give me some little sign he could even think of me that way, and here I stand . . . gobstruck. I haven't got James' easy wit, nor Lily's innate fearlessness. So what on Earth_ do _I have? Why would he even want me?_  
  
  
He absently offers Scorpius a hand up--and is floored when that hand is graciously accepted.   
  
  
Scorpius exerts just enough pressure to steady himself as they stand, and not once does that gaze leave him. Not even when they're standing eye to--well, eye to collarbone. But Scorpius still somehow manages to look  _up_  into Al's eyes, despite being markedly taller.   
  
  
“Well, did you enjoy that, Potter?” Scorpius' voice is tight and pleasant--the way Mum's gets just before she starts grounding _everyone_  within viewing distance--and for a horrible moment, Al's certain he means the hand-holding.   
  
  
The silence stretches heavily between them and Al drops Scorpius' hand as if burned.  
  
  
“W-what? Enjoy what?” He feels a tickle of unease, and wonders if he should perhaps remove himself from hexing range altogether. To Hogsmeade Village, say.  
  
  
“Playing the hero, of course. Was it everything you hoped it would be? More, perhaps?” There are hints of a sneer on the curving mouth, something that makes Scorpius look eerily his paternal grandfather (someone covered in great depth in Fifth Year History of Magic).  
  
  
“Yes--I mean  _no_ , that's not why I came here.” Al hadn't thought of it in terms of enjoyment, just as a convenient icebreaker . . . maybe even something that would impress. He wanted nothing more than for Scorpius to  _finally_  notice him.   
  
  
And anyway, Lily's the one who seems to have inherited the Potter hero complex.  
  
  
Al shakes his head. “Malfoy-- _Scorpius_ , you've got it all wrong--” suddenly there's something blunt-tipped and hard pointing into his stomach, and--  
  
  
" _Petrificus Totalus_."  
  
  
Al doesn't have time to block the curse, or even blink. He can only stare at Scorpius' fine-featured face in mild surprise, and feel . . . feel. . . .  
  
  
Like his Y-fronts are getting a bit snug.  
  
  
Scorpius eyes him with smug satisfaction, and snorts. "Honestly, Potter. Did you truly think I'd be bowled over by you rushing in, sans white charger, to save me from the least imaginative prank I've ever been witness to?"  
  
  
Some of Al's confusion must come through clearly despite having been  _Petrified_ , because Scorpius' eyes narrow angrily, and he pokes Al in the chest with his wand.  
  
  
"Just because you behaved like some Gryffindor fathead, doesn't mean I'm going to swoon at your feet and start singing the Potters' praises like everyone else.” Scorpius is crystalline and cold--confident and unapologetic: all the things Al has admired about him since that fateful, awkward History of Magic section, last year.  
  
  
It's in that moment that he realizes he's been handling his infatuation all wrong. Sitting and repining, hoping to be noticed like the proverbial diamond in the rough. As if Scorpius was a simple, open-hearted Hufflepuff, to be impressed by nothing more complex than sincere depth of emotion.  
  
  
Or a half-arsed rescue.  
  
  
But that's not the way of Slytherins, no, nor of Potters. No one will be gift-wrapping Scorpius' affections and handing them to Al. James had the right of it, after all: faint heart never won fair Malfoy. And it never will.  
  
  
 _I'm a Slytherin, and I'm in love with another Slytherin. A Malfoy, no less. It's time I stop waiting and wallowing, and start strategiz--_  
  
  
Scorpius pokes Al in the chest again, as if aware of Al's wandering attention. "Hear me well: we're not our fathers--and I don't need a savior, if that's all you want of me, so don't bother applying for the position!"  
  
  
 _I don't think you need saving, I just want to show you that I'm worthy of you!_  
  
  
And  _that_  would be the infamous Malfoy glare, alright. It's every bit as magnificent as he'd heard. It pins Al, flays him, castigates him . . . fills his veins with fire and his stomach with ice before Scorpius ducks his head, fine blond hair obscuring his face for a few moments. Al can only hope the bagginess of his trousers and his habitually untucked shirt hides his body's completely involuntary response to Scorpius' nearness--   
  
  
\--can only hope that soft gasp is unrelated to the aforementioned involuntary response.  
  
  
Scorpius looks up at Al warily, his eyes gone round with surprise. So much for hope.  
  
  
Eternities tick by as they stare at each other in shock and mortification, respectively. Then, quite mystifyingly, Scorpius laughs a little, a flush rising to his cheeks.  
  
  
“ _That_  certainly puts a different slant on this whole matter,” he says, sneaking coy looks between Al's face and Al's . . . deep and abiding shame. “Merlin, I can't believe I didn't see this sooner.”  
  
  
At that accidental double entendre, Scorpius colors even more. Clears his throat, but doesn't bother hiding a cheeky, very un-Malfoy grin.  
  
  
 _I am really sorry about this, but please don't laugh at me,_  Al would beg, if he could. But he can't. He can only beg certain parts of his anatomy to play dead, in the interests of self-preservation.  
  
  
“So, all this--your brother and his asinine friends hexing me, you rushing in right after to save the day--this is was your Potteresque attempt at . . . at  _courting me_?” The coy gaze turns cool and appraising. Believable but for the remnants of that wild flush at each sharp cheekbone. “Well. In that case, I suppose you get an A for Acceptable.  _This time_. But I shall expect . . . more discrete attentions from you, in future. No. More. Staged. Bloody. Rescues. Are we agreed?"  
  
  
To be honest, Scorpius had lost Al several sentences back--somewhere between the gasp and the double entendre--but the gist of it seems to be that James' stupid pranking had been part of some larger, grander plan that Al, himself, had conceived.  
  
  
Which is ridiculous, of course. For all that he's a Slytherin, Al isn't terribly sly. Even James is slyer, most days, and Lily's cleverer out of a dead sleep than both of them put together.  
  
  
But Scorpius doesn't have to know that. And Al is certainly Slytherin enough to be in no hurry to share this unfortunate fact.  
  
  
 _Jamie, you Quaffle-headed lummox, you're the best brother in the world! The best brother_ ever--  
  
  
A gentle hand brushes spiky, untidy fringe away from his face--removes his glasses and places them in his right shirt pocket after carefully folding them. Those lucent grey eyes are blurrier--then suddenly sharper as Scorpius moves closer.   
  
  
“I take your silence as assent.” The tips of their noses brush--Scorpius' nose is warm, Al's is not--and Scorpius sighs, angling his face so his soft lips brush Al's once, twice (press them quite firmly, that second time). After a few startling, too-brief moments, he sighs again and murmurs: "Now, if you'll excuse me, Potter, I have to go hex your gormless plank of a brother into next week."  
  
  
Another fleeting-brush kiss, and Al is alone, listening to the click of expensive dragon-hide boots striding purposefully out of the Hall.  
  
  
If he could close his eyes beyond blinking, he would. Brand into his brain the nearness of Scorpius, the warmth of his breath, the feel of his lips--the near-taste of them on a shared breath. Elegant fingers on his face. . . .   
  
  
Merlin, what would those fingers feel like everywhere else?  
  
  
He's still fighting down the natural involuntary response to  _that_ \--with  _very_  limited success--when he hears it: the sounds of the first chattering, hungry students making their way into the Hall.  
  
  
In that moment he quite hates James, who is, in fact, the  _worst_  brother in the history of the world.  
  
  
 _Ever._


	2. Geek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "You have absolutely no idea, do you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Didn't do it.  
> Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e by five and a half years.

"You have absolutely no idea, do you?"   
  
"What?” Albus looks up myopically from his tome on Arithmancy, squints in a way that's highly undignified--he probably has no idea where he left his glasses--and makes his nose crinkle, his freckles stand out.   
  
The golden, library lamplight turns his bottle-green eyes a warm, sparkling hazel that Scorpius has yet to grow bored of.  
  
“That you're--”  _beautiful_  “--a, what's the Muggle term? 'Geek'?”  
  
Albus grins. It puts a dimple in his right cheek. “ _Accio_ , glasses.”   
  
He doesn't seem the least bit surprised when they fly out of Scorpius' shirt pocket.


	3. The Close of the Courtship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the slashthedrabble prompt "close".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e by six years.

  
“Wanna see something brilliant?”  
  
  
Scorpius looks up from  _Lone Auror: An Angharad Awbrey Novel_. Takes in Albus' shining eyes and flushed face, and smirks. “The sheer volume of studying you do is affecting your memory, Potter: I've  _already_  seen it.”  
  
  
Albus' brow furrows, nose wrinkling in that infernally adorable way. There's a spray of freckles across the bridge--visible even from across the room--the only concession made to Weasley blood in terms of looks, besides a slightly too-wide mouth.  
  
  
“No, not  _that_  . . . though after, if you want--” a blush camouflages the freckles.  
  
  
“Perhaps. Now show me what's so brilliant.”  
  
  
Albus nods, sneaking a cursory glance around their dorm room (they are, for once, alone), closes his copy of  _Advanced Rune Translation_ , and sets it aside. Unfolds his legs, and kicks off his shoes: like his hands, his feet are curiously out-sized, as if he's yet to grow into them.  
  
  
He shudders once, hard, his eyes widening as if he's about to sneeze, and--  
  
  
\--a great [Tawny owl](http://www.surfbirds.com/media/gallery_photos/20021016001428.jpg) staggers maladroitly on the bed.   
  
  
Mildly agape, Scorpius automatically offers his arm. The owl launches gracefully onto it with a restrained, steadying flutter of large wings. It must weigh upward of one stone. . . .  
  
  
He eyes the owl, and it eyes him. Then it makes a querying  _KEW-wick?_  sound.  
  
  
“You were quite right, Potter,” Scorpius replies softly. “This is-- _you_  are brilliant.”  
  
  
The owl cocks its head at a should-be-impossible angle, diamond-hard intelligence shining out of its dark eyes. It sidles up Scorpius' arm, never diverting that gaze, and when it's close enough that Scorpius is nearly crossed-eyed, it does something the Malfoy Eagle owls never do:   
  
  
Nibbles his nose. Fondly.  
  
  
Laughing, Scorpius strokes its feathered breast, and the owl shivers, hopping off his arm--  
  
  
Albus lands next to him with a bounce and a grin, one discarded feather drifting slowly between them.  
  
  
“So,” he says, shrugging twitchily, absently plucking the feather out of the air with the unerring speed and accuracy that would've made him a skilled Seeker, had he been inclined. “Changing's dead easy. Changing back is . . . not. I can't focus as well, and sometimes . . . I don't  _want_  to change back.”   
  
  
Scorpius places a gentling hand on Albus' knee. “How long have you been an Animagus?”  
  
  
Albus colors a little, twisting the feather in his fingers. “Middle of Fifth Year.”  
  
  
“Impressive. I take it you're Unregistered.” When Albus gives him a haughty sort of glance, Scorpius laughs again. “What do your parents think?”  
  
  
That glance falters, and Albus brushes the feather down the back of Scorpius hand--smiling a little when the hand captures his own. “They don't know. No one knows . . . except you.”  
  
  
Hiding his surprised pleasure is a struggle Scorpius isn't sure he wants to win.  
  
  
When Albus moves in close to kiss him--slowly, solemnly, turning his hand in Scorpius' to press the feather between them like a token, a promise--Scorpius finds that, for once, he's alright with losing.  
  



	4. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the awdt prompt (from, like, a month ago) "just stand there--and don't speak, sweetie".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Didn't do it.  
> Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e, just before their Seventh Year. Part of the AS/S-verse, a sort of prequel to ficlet A Certain Kind of Fool. Can be read as a standalone.

" _'Just stand there--and don't speak, sweetie.'_ ” Scorpius mutters in a passable imitation of his mother's voice. “As if I'm some idiot child."  
  
  
He glares pointedly at a group of brats staring into the picture window of  _Madame Malkin's_  at him. He's miserably satisfied when they scurry away like startled rats, soon lost in the exodus of students and parents hurrying back and forth through the Alley.   
  
  
 _And why shouldn't they run?_  Sighing, he turns away from the window. Flings himself onto the one tasteful sofa in the entire lounge, and sets his face in a mask of detached approval for the moment his mother comes swanning through the changing-room curtain.  _I certainly look enough like Dear Death Eater Granddad to strike fear into the hearts of Muggle-born ankle-biters everywhere. Which is why I_ so _look forward to these jaunts to Diagon Alley. . . ._  
  
  
Though it was his choice to accompany his mother on her appointment, and head off budding fashion disasters--he'd penned a brief note to Albus last night, one in which he mentioned being in Diagon Alley all afternoon today, if Albus wanted to maybe meet for a butterbeer. . . ? and received no response, so it's not as if Scorpius has anything else to occupy his time--he now wants nothing more than to seclude himself in his rooms, and be left alone to brood until it's time to go to King's Cross Station.  
  
  
And once on the Express, he can utterly misuse his powers as a Prefect, and wheedle/ intimidate a car all to himself, just he had at the end of the year. Hopefully, he and Albus can renew their ties in the same delightful fashion. . . .  
  
  
Such thoughts make him grin in a way most unbefitting a Malfoy. The Greengrass grin, according to Father, and the only thing that serves to make him look less like a relative of whom everyone is loathe to be reminded . . . according to Mother.  
  
  
The relative Scorpius has just spent a stultifying and pointless summer trying his pointless best to avoid, in the most pointless region of Spain.  
  
  
All rather pointlessly.  
  
  
 _Albus doesn't care that I look like Lucius,_  he thinks, quite unaware that the wide-- _cheeky_ , according to  _Albus_ \--Greengrass grin has changed to something even less befitting a Malfoy: a small, smitten smile.  _To him, I'm simply Scorpius. Simply_ his. . . .  
  
  
That's assuming Albus still wants him, which, time and distance notwithstanding, may be a lot to assume. Teenage boys are known neither for constancy nor length of memory. And is it really so beyond that pale that Albus--with his gamin, earnest looks and lively green eyes--met some handsome, intelligent (always intelligent, as Albus can't abide fools, no matter how pretty) boy over the summer and . . . and. . . .  
  
  
And rambling, almost-weekly letters to each other, though reassuring whilst apart, hold no power to soothe with reunion imminent. There's less than a week until school starts (less than a week since Scorpius and Cassiopeia returned from visiting their grandparents in Girona, but more than a month since Albus, and the Granger-Weasleys returned from Australia), and he'd gladly put a stake in summer's black heart to see Albus just a bit sooner. To have this awful waiting and wondering over with.  
  
  
Wondering if Albus was as puppyishly faithful as Scorpius had been: not so much unable to notice other boys, but unable to help comparing them unfavorably with someone he missed even more than he missed being able to freely practice magic.  
  
  
Wondering if there were slips of the body and heart to be forgiven and, if there were, the infamous Malfoy pride put quite aside, knowing he would forgive them. Anything to have Albus smile at him--not that every-man Weasley grin, but the small shy  _smile_ that's purely  _Albus_. That makes his mouth curve prettily and his eyes light up. . . .  
  
  
" _Loin des yeux, loin du coeur_ ," he mutters ruefully, though he knows it's unfair. A steadier, more faithful heart than Albus's isn't to be found in Wizarding Britain, Scorpius is certain of it.  
  
  
Well. He  _was_  certain, in June. Certain of both their hearts instead of merely his own.  
  
  
He sighs softly. Perhaps it's crazy, and silly--perhaps he's thinking more like a Hufflepuff than a Slytherin, but he can't imagine a future without Albus by his side, even though the odds that he will one day be living such a benighted future are high. . . .   
  
  
Scorpius's father has made it more than plain that he's counting on Scorpius to continue his tradition of what Muggles call 'damage control'. Or if he is incapable of that, at least not inflicting further damage to the family before he can provide more dynamic heirs.   
  
  
But those Malfoy heirs aren't likely to happen anytime soon. Possibly never, if Cassiopeia doesn't outgrow her boys-are-all-quite-stupid-and-disgusting-but-for-you-Scorpius phase.  
  
  
Even so, she's far too clever to insist on keeping the millstone of the Malfoy name once she marries. Between his father--and infinitely more so, Dear Death Eater Granddad--the name hasn't been simply dragged in the mud, it  _is_  mud, in polite society. Not so bad as it was when Scorpius was a child (he hadn't a single friend his own age until Second Year), but he's had to work twice as hard to get half the respect of his teachers and peers, three times as hard to earn any sort of trust. And despite what Albus believes, Scorpius could get Es in all of his NEWTs, and still not have a snowball's chance when it comes to the only career he's ever wanted.  
  
  
"Because Malfoys don't become Aurors, love. Someone as smart as you must surely know that," he says, wishing Albus were there to argue with him, his voice--which Scorpius has yet to hear raised in anger--soft and certain, saying everything Scorpius has ever wanted to hear, but is too much of a Slytherin at heart to believe. . . .  
  
  
(Albus is a poor liar, worse than a Hufflepuff, even. He turns a splotchy, awful red and begins to stammer. His eyes get shifty, and he incessantly polishes his glasses with his tie. And though he never does any of these things when they talk about Scorpius putting in for Auror training, that unshakable Potter faith in the people he cares about, and the Weasley near-pathological loyalty to the same makes his opinion completely unreliable about such things.  
  
  
He seems to automatically think Scorpius is fully capable of doing anything and everything he sets his mind to, which is. . . .  
  
  
. . . bloody annoying, is what it is. Exhilarating . . . but annoying.)  
  
  
Suddenly, the homesickness and loneliness he's been fighting rises to an unbearable pitch, and he can't imagine spending another three days at that drafty mausoleum he calls home, with its disabled traps and woebegone ghosts . . . it's abandoned secrets and bitter paintings. All he wants is Albus. To see the light of the Hogwarts Library turn those changeable eyes into a hazel that glows with contentment whenever they rest on him. To hold and be held until the past two months are nothing but a dim memory.  
  
  
He silently curses his grandparents (why the sudden interest in them, the grandchildren they barely know?) and Girona; and Albus's aunt and uncle, and Australia. Curses Time, itself, for putting an entire summer between their last kiss and the one that's still waiting for them.   
  
  
He closes his eyes and imagines removing Albus's glasses, tilting his head back just so: gazing into deep green eyes, and kissing feather-soft lips that are always a tad chapped, a tad bitten. Imagines his kisses returned reverently, a little shyly, then becoming another thing entirely, once a little time passes without interruption: wanton and urgent. A surprising, overwhelming intensity of passion that's hidden from the world, from everyone but Scorpius.  
  
  
Although they've never actually progressed beyond snogging and  _very_  heavy petting (except for that last . . .  _good-bye_  on the train ride to King's Cross), he can easily imagine making love with Albus. They've spent enough time jammed into unused broom closets with a faltering  _Lumos_  lighting their rather frenzied, mostly clothed trysts-- _he_ 's spent too much time . . . committing to memory the way Albus's sturdy, compact body feels to  _not_  have a pretty good idea of what that body will feel like on him, in him, around him.  
  
  
Such  _distracting_  ideas he's been having, and all summer long. . . .  
  
 _On the first Hogsmeade Weekend, I'm getting us a room at the Three Broomsticks, and we're not leaving until Monday morning. And since I'm seventeen now, no one can say a bloody thing about it . . . though Albus's birthday isn't until November . . . bollocks, I'll have to sort something out before then._  
  
  
Suddenly aware that he's no longer alone, he stifles a sigh and doesn't open his eyes. It'll make lying easier and get them home faster. Instead of brooding, he can spend the rest of the afternoon wanking. It wouldn't be the first time. "You look ravishing. Father will be beside himself, of course."  
  
  
"That's . . . comforting, though he's not the Malfoy I was hoping to see," an achingly familiar, but equally uncertain voice says from the entryway to the waiting lounge. Scorpius's eyes fly open, and for a moment, all he can do is gape at the tall figure hesitating at the lintel;  
  
  
at the distressed red and black Weird Sisters tour shirt that clings to wide, sharp-bladed shoulders and pipe-cleaner legs that seem to go on forever, in black jeans;  
  
  
at messy hair grown out beyond hope of styling, framing a square, stubborn-jawed face wearing a pair of glasses-- _stylish_ , by the Four Founders--that Scorpius has never seen before;  
  
  
at the  _height_  that seems to beggar Scorpius's own modest five feet ten inches. Really, it's the height that shows the Weasley blood more than anything ever has . . . is throwing Scorpius for a loop. Makes him blink repeatedly and rub his eyes.  
  
  
"You're not Mother," he says, and is immediately certain it's the stupidest thing he'll ever say. Yet the response he receives, rather than ridicule, is a grin; it sits strangely the tanned, somehow unfinished face.  
  
  
"Well-spotted . . . though I have to say that's the strangest greeting I've ever received." Eyes as green as envy linger on Scorpius appreciatively, making his cheeks burn under such a frankly admiring, nakedly yearning gaze. "Bloody hell, it's impossible, but you're even more beautiful than I remember."  
  
  
"Much like a Chateau Margaux, time only improves me." Scorpius can't help staring, feeling terribly nonplussed. The familiar and beloved has been rendered strange. Even the formerly out-sized, square hands seem oddly in proportion, now.  
  
  
 _But, ye gods and fishes, who knew there was half a foot of growing left to achieve that?_  
  
  
That big, blameless grin falters a little, the warmth leavened with concern. "I, er, shot up a bit over the summer," he says, belaboring the obvious with a nervous laugh--even his laugh is different. Deeper, older. "I know I look a scarecrow, now, all elbows and knees and angles, but . . . I'm still me. Still your Albus.  _Always_  yours."  
  
  
Everything Scorpius ever wanted to hear, and nothing anyone's ever said to him before. Nothing he ever  _expected_  to hear, being who he is. And certainly not in this  _different_  voice.  
  
  
He stands up and slowly approaches this gangling, weedy young man claiming to be  _his_  Albus ( _Scorpius's_  Albus was most definitely a  _boy_ , as in  _boy_ friend, and the- _boy_ -that-I-love. This person in front of him is very nearly a man).   
  
  
He stops a few feet away, narrows his eyes when a particularly aggressive ray of sunlight slants off those sleek, quirky glasses, and moves just a bit nearer. And a bit more. Till he can reach up and remove them.   
  
  
After a moment of a hesitation--eyes averted--he folds them carefully, and places them in an inner pocket of his robe, next to his wand. It's something he's missed doing all summer, this ritualized prelude to their kisses.  
  
  
Taking a breath, Scorpius looks up into anxious eyes that are rendered translucent by sunlight and sun-darkened skin-- _How many times must he have burned and peeled before finally tanning?_ \--and is caught, as always, by the heart that beats so openly in them.   
  
  
"Please . . . say something, Scorpius. I've missed you so much. . . ." Albus' voice cracks up into a slightly higher register. His brow furrows, his nose wrinkles, and without the glasses, the changes Time has wrought are even plainer. But those eyes . . .  _Albus_ 's eyes had this endearing habit of always lighting up whenever they saw Scorpius.  
  
  
The one thing, it would appear, Time hasn't yet sunk its claws into.  
  
  
Before doubt can draw another line on the changed, but still beloved face, or cast shadows in the bright, loving eyes--Scorpius is pulling Albus into his arms, branding the feel of' him into his body's memory. The scent of him, like earth and grass and wind, like a hundred pick-up Quidditch matches with his innumerable cousins--with underlying hints scroll-dust and  _Hogwarts_ \--onto his brain.  
  
  
Scorpius squeezes as tight as he can, and without further encouragement, Albus's long arms wrap around him just as tight. Some vast gulf within him--one that he hadn't even suspected, but that lies at the pit of both stomach and heart--seals seamlessly.  
  
  
He promises himself that for as long as Albus is naïve enough to think they'll last, they will never be parted like this again.  _Never_.   
  
  
"I missed you so much."  
  
  
"Of course you missed me, Potter. It's commonly held that absence makes the heart grow fon--" Scorpius gasps, as his feet leave the ground and he's spun about, then kissed soundly. No reverence, not even a little shyness, just a hard, wet, greedy kiss that tastes of sherbet lemons and peppermint humbugs.   
  
  
"I'd heard, but never believed until now," Albus laughs breathlessly, an odd sort of hitch in his voice that makes Scorpius's heart clench and his stomach settle decisively.  
  
  
Suddenly--far from cupping Albus's face gently and tilting it up for a kiss--Scorpius is nearly on tiptoe, pulling Albus's head down by his ears. His hands rove ceaselessly over Albus's back, and one slips under the Weird Sisters t-shirt. The other settles in the right back pocket of the low-slung trousers.  
  
  
Albus's hands are likewise snaking into Scorpius's robe, taking up similar positions, callouses snagging on expensive fabric, and this is better than anything they've ever done or anything Scorpius has ever fantasized about. It's absolutely  _perfect_. Never-bloody-mind that they're in front of a picture window where passing throngs have an excellent view of them snogging.   
  
  
Never-even-bloody-mind that his mother and Madame will eventually decide they've murdered good taste to their satisfaction, and emerge. . . .  
  
  
Scorpius moans and breaks the kiss, relinquishing the back pocket to brush Albus's untidy fringe back off his forehead, laughing when it flops right back, nearly obscuring his eyes. But Albus just watches him solemnly.  
  
  
"I'm a bit scruffy," he says finally, not quite apologetically. "Haven't had a chance to get it trimmed, and I might not do, I don't think."  
  
  
Scorpius looks him over intently, finger-combing a few unruly snarls and grinning when the hair spikes up like an offended kneazle. "It takes a bit of getting used to, but I like it," he declares. "Makes you look dangerous and sexy."  
  
  
Albus blushes deeply enough that it shows up through the tan like a beacon. " _Makes_  me look like a daft git who can't be arsed to comb his hair in the mornings, which is true enough, most days." He leans his forehead against Scorpius's and sighs happily. "When I couldn't find you I was afraid I'd missed you altogether. Or that you'd decided not to come, after all."  
  
  
Being this close after so long is headier than champagne, and Scorpius is almost dizzy with it. "Why--why didn't you reply to my owl?"  
  
  
"I've been grounded for nearly a fortnight, now. Mum and Dad wouldn't let me go farther than Ottery St. Catchpole, and only so Gran could run me ragged with chores." His face still gets that adorable, sulky-pinched look when he's been thwarted. "I wasn't allowed to use the family owls, and watched too closely to  _become_  one . . . I wasn't sure you'd still come to the Alley."  
  
  
"Yes, well. I had errands to run,” Scorpius sniffs as haughtily as he can manage. And he can manage quite a lot. “Consider yourself lucky, Potter."  
  
  
“Believe me, I do,” Albus says in the low sort of voice one could easily imagine whispering very sweet--very dirty nothings in one's ear. If, that is, the speaker could ever be so persuaded.   
  
  
That  _very_  un-Malfoy grin stretches Scorpius's face and he doesn't care. "You're lucky, and I have a weakness for lucky men. That's settled. Now, exactly how many growth potions have you consumed since last we saw each other? I seem to recall you were still two inches shorter than me."  
  
  
Albus slides both hands to Scorpius's waist, a pleasant, possessive weight. "I must've been brewing and drinking in my sleep. What little sleep I got, that is. Could barely rest, for the growing pains. Poor Aunt 'Mione was in fits trying to keep me clothed the whole month we were abroad, and when we got back, Uncle Ron kept telling Dad he ought to have a talk with the postman, whatever  _that_  means . . . but sod all that.” He leans in to press his lips to Scorpius's temple. “Tell me what thoughts put that lovely, wicked smile on your face before. . . ."  
  
  
Letting himself be swayed in Albus's arms, Scorpius feels that same smile return to his face, and revels in this embrace, as if no time has passed. "I was thinking about how we said good-bye on the Express, and about how perfect and wet your mouth is.” He looks up into Albus's face, hands sweeping lightly over the warm, smooth skin of his back.  
  
  
“I was also thinking that if you were here with me, I might cast aside all propriety, and return favor. For starters.” Albus's eyes flutter shut as he groans  _bloody hell_ , licking his lips.   
  
  
It's such a good idea, Scorpius follows suit.  
  
  
"You're really evil, you know? Turning otherwise docile young men into raging sex-fiends." Albus leans them against the lintel and pointedly pulls Scorpius flush against him. “Feel what you do to me?”  
  
  
Indeed, Scorpius does, and makes no attempt to hide his gratification. “First Hogsmeade Weekend, Potter. By Sunday morning, our unicorn-Summoning days will be irrevocably. Over.”  
  
  
"Er, that's just a myth, you know?" Albus frowns a little, that bookish line between his eyebrows deepening. "About unicorns, and v-virgins--"  
  
  
" _Do_  try a little harder not to miss the point I was trying to make, dearest." Scorpius latches onto a prime bit of real estate just below Albus's jaw, and not just to head off a lecture on Magical Creatures he couldn't have cared less about even in Third Year. "I've spent so much time imagining what I'd do to you,  _with_  you, when I finally had you all to myself. I thought I'd die of wanting you . . . but I suppose the having of you can wait a little longer.”   
  
  
“It  _can_?” Before Albus can do more than moan unhappily, Scorpius has removed himself to a more discrete distance. Sits down again and arranges his robe, before smiling his most placid afternoon-tea smile. A glance at the picture window shows neither urchins nor their parents peering in at them, thank Merlin for small favors.  
  
  
“For now, I'd much rather hear about how terribly you missed me, and what mischief you did to get so severely punished that you weren't even allowed to answer my owl." He pats the spot right next to him playfully.  
  
  
"What I did to get so severely punished?" Albus asks jaggedly, trying and failing to adjust his trousers to adequately hide a most satisfactory response to their truncated reunion. "Well, since getting back from Australia, I've played more Quidditch than I have in my entire life before, just to take my mind off you. When that didn't work, I researched making an Unregistered Portkey. Then I tried blackmailing James into teaching me to Apparate--”   
  
  
“For blackmail to work, the blackmailee has to have a sense of shame and/ or guilt. Or two working brain cells to rub together,” Scorpius notes sympathetically, and Albus nods.  
  
  
“Yes, I learned  _that_  the hard way. And when neither of those plans worked, I went back to Quidditch. Broke several bones--my right arm twice. Still couldn't stop thinking about you. In fact," Albus laughs ruefully, and makes his way over to the sofa. When he sits, Scorpius notices with a rush of desire that there's a rather livid love-mark just to the left of his Adam's apple. "Hmm. That lack of concentration on the matters at hand may be why I had so many stupid accidents. But any distraction from this interminable summer was a good one, I suppose.  
  
  
"When I broke my arm the second time, Mum banned me from playing Quidditch for the duration, and I spent so much time moping about that James and Teddy dragged me to the Hogs Head for 'cheering up', and . . . between the Morris-dancing, and the Firewhisky--and the goats--the wandless magic only happened because I was completely rat-arsed! Thanks to the team effort of the worst brother  _and_  cousin in the world . . . and if that sneaky cow from the  _Prophet_  hadn't wrote that bloody article--” Albus heaves a sigh and gives Scorpius a sheepish half-smile. “After nearly two weeks, Mum finally decided I learned my lesson sufficiently to be granted early parole. And the first thing I did was come to the Alley to find you."  
  
  
It takes a few seconds to incorporate that breathless gush of information-- _Morris-dancing? Goats? What on Earth. . . ?_ \--Scorpius shakes his head. "I knew there was a reason I didn't like your plank of a brother.”  
  
  
"Oh, there are many other reasons not to like James. Nearly seventeen years, and I'm still adding to the itemized list on a daily basis." Albus shrugs, then brightens a bit. "Speaking of the Quaffle-headed Wonderboy, he's having a sort of celebration this afternoon. He got signed by the Cannons, and--"  
  
  
"The  _Chudley_  Cannons?" Scorpius smirks. "And this is cause for a celebration, in his opinion?"  
  
  
"Apparently." Albus rolls his eyes. "But he's happy--it never did take much. And you should see Uncle Ron's eyes tear up at the very mention . . . bloody unnerving. Anyway, James is throwing a party, and you're cordially invited."  
  
  
"Cordially?" Doubt; cushioned, then stolen when Albus leans in for a chaste, but lingering kiss.  
  
  
"Yes, cordially." Off the disbelieving look he receives, Albus clears his throat. "Alright, he said, and I quote, 'oh, fine, bring that Malfoy git, if you're still so over-the-bloody-moon about him. But if he hexes anyone, you're both out on your arse.'"  
  
  
"How charming." Scorpius brushes Albus's hair back from his face again, busying himself with making sure it stays, this time. "And naturally you  _are_  still over-the-bloody-moon about me."  
  
  
"Naturally." Albus looks down at Scorpius's chest. Underneath the robe, vest, and linen shirt, is a single tawny-grey feather, with a fine electrum chain strung through the shaft. Both chain and feather were gifts from Albus; gifts Scorpius has never taken off.  
  
  
Albus's fingers brush the exact spot on his breastbone where the feather rests, and Scorpius shivers, feeling laid bare and surprisingly alright with that. Since it's  _Albus_  doing the . . . laying. "I'll never be less than absolutely over-the-bloody-moon about you, Scorpius."  
  
  
"In that case, you should know that I remain enamored of you, as well, and for the foreseeable future," Scorpius adds around something that feels like his heart. Such a ridiculous, Hufflepuff sort of sentiment, but seeing Albus light up is worth a tiny, quiet bit of internal embarrassment.   
  
  
He places his hand in Albus's, smiling when it's squeezed fervently. "Well enough then, Potter. Let's go, before my mother remembers I exist."  
  
  


*

  
  
  
". . . only on the reserve team, at the moment, but according to him and Uncle Ron, DeValera's due to retire in a year or two, and James'll be a shoe-in for her spot." Albus smiles a little, tugging Scorpius into the Leaky Cauldron as the entrance to Diagon Alley grates closed behind them. "I'm actually quite proud of him. The Cannons are bloody awful, but if he can help bring them even a few wins--and if any Beater can, it's Jamie--he'll be one of the most sought after players in Great Britain. Almost Slytherin of him, really."  
  
  
As they step into the Leaky Cauldron, Scorpius keeps his opinion to himself: that James Potter isn't clever, merely thick-headed. At some point, someone mentioned in passing that no one player could redeem the Cannons, and this is James's typical Gryffindor way of accepting a challenge that was neither posed nor cared about.  
  
  
As the back door closes, Scorpius blinks until his eyes adjust, then drinks in his surroundings. He's never been in the Leaky Cauldron before, and despite the few things he's heard, it's clean enough, though shabby and small. The whole of the ground floor seems to be significantly smaller than Scorpius's bedroom, and the wooden surfaces are a fragile, silvery grey from years of cleaning, though the furniture itself looks sturdy enough.   
  
  
And there's certainly a lot of it, for such an economical space--most of it filled with ordinary-looking folk and their parcels; witches and wizards stopping for refreshment before going about their business.   
  
  
Many of them recognize Albus, hailing him by name. Albus responds in kind, though briefly. There are more than a few curious glances cast at Scorpius, at his hand held unmistakably in Albus's.  
  
  
It takes everything he has to ignore the equivalent of a biological imperative, and smile instead of sneer. But he does, and receives a few friendly nods in return.  
  
  
More quickly than he would have thought, they're out of the common room and in a small antechamber that's almost completely taken up with a large, ancient fireplace: the Floo-point.   
  
  
Scorpius retrieves Albus' glasses--makes sure his wand is still where he left it--and carefully places them on his face.  
  
  
"I was just about to ask. Thanks, love." Albus grins and busses his cheek, Unsurprisingly it turns into an careful, but protracted snog until some roaring din sounds outside, in Muggle London. Scorpius nearly flies out of his skin and Albus obligingly pulls him closer.  
  
  
"Dragon?" Though he's fairly sure, from his Muggle Studies class that dragons aren't a part of Muggle London.  
  
  
"Close. Muscle-car, with a glass-pack muffler." Albus grins, his eyes shining even through his now foggy and smudged lenses. "Will your mother worry when she realizes you've gone?"  
  
  
"I only went along with her because I was going to the Alley, anyway. She'll just assume I got bored with waiting and Floo-ed home to sulk," he says, not adding that he might have done, if for totally different reasons, had Albus not appeared.  
  
  
But the raised eyebrows say that Albus may have already sussed that out.  
  
  
"You're too smart for your own good," Scorpius tells him waspishly. But even waspishness is good for a fond kiss on the forehead from Albus. He's such an agreeable paramour.  
  
  
"I'm not especially smart. I just notice things, and remember them," he dismisses, and on this, Scorpius has learned it's better not to argue. Despite being sorted Slytherin, Albus has some distinctly Potter-ish notions about everyone having equal potential intelligence, differing only in opportunities for learning and method of retention.  
  
  
For such a wonderfully keen intellect, Albus can be very naïve . . . but Scorpius finds that naivete refreshing, and rather sweet.  
  
  
"Should I do something about my clothes?" he asks, looking down at his rather formal grey and black robe, and matching, custom-tailored, three quarters length, single-breasted wool suit, with chirugeon's cuffs and a double-pleat. Not exactly appropriate attire for whatever Quidditch pitch or pub James Potter has chosen to hold his party in.   
  
  
Scorpius looks up at Albus, and for the life of him can't understand the small smile on his face. "What? Are they too formal, or will I . . . blend in?" Though that's a horrifying thought, considering the awful, Muggle-style rags James and his cronies often wear.  
  
  
Albus runs a finger slowly down the trim of Scorpius's robe. "You'll never  _blend in_ , Scorpius, you're far too gorgeous and special for that. But what you're wearing is more than fine, it's--oh, er . . . there's one other thing I forgot to mention about the party. . . ."  
  
  
He frowns, but lets Albus maneuver them both into the huge fireplace. "What other thing? Potter--is your brother's little soiree being held at the Hog's Head? Because if it is, you may escort me back to Diagon Alley immediately, and I'll see you on the Hogwarts Express--"  
  
  
“ _No!_  It's not at the Hog's Head, it's--” Albus bites his lower lip, and casts a wandless, absent  _Sano_  on his glasses before fumbling for floo-powder out of a small, cracked bowl. "The party's at the Burrow, and . . . myparentsaregoingtobethereandmostoftherestofmyfamilyandtheyallsortofwanttomeetyou-- _the Burrow_!"  
  
  
Albus grabs Scorpius's arm and throws down the floo-powder, luckily before  _the devil, you say!_  escapes Scorpius lips, and sends them someplace he wants to go even less.  
  
  
Far too soon, they're stepping out of another large fireplace, and into a cozy sitting room, made even cozier by dint of being crammed with worn, comfortable-looking chairs and mismatched sofas. Everywhere are pictures of freckled redheads: adults, children, all grinning or winking or waving. A veritable sea of Weasley.   
  
  
(His father once recounted a nightmare that sounded very much like this, only the redheads had all been riding Hippogryffs, for some reason.)  
  
  
Scorpius rounds on Albus, who's almost grey under the tan, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Er, surprise?”  
  
  
“Surprise?! You lanky, myopic swine, how  _dare_  you ambush me, like this? What on Earth were you thinking? Or were you thinking at all?” Scorpius demands, throwing up his hands. “I'm going back to Diagon Alley. Owl me when you're done being completely insane.”  
  
  
He turns to the mantle-- _eurgh!_  More grinning redheads--but before he can get to the bowl of floo-powder nestled between a photo of Albus's sister and some gap-toothed young cousin, his hand is caught and pulled away. “Let go of me, Potter, or I'll make you regret it.”  
  
  
“No, Malfoy.” Scorpius flinches. Not that he would ever tell Albus this, but he hates being called by his last name,  _especially_  when it's Albus doing the calling. “Look at me, Scorpius. We've been, you know,  _together_  since before last Hallowe'en. Nearly a year. Don't you think it's time we met each other's parents?”  
  
  
“ _No, I do not!_ ” Scorpius blurts out without thinking, only to see genuine hurt flash in Albus's eyes. He sighs and moves in close, his voice dropped to a whisper. “Potter. Albus. I--you make me happy. So happy that I want to tell the whole world that I . . . well. You know. But given our respective places in society, that same world will be less than thrilled that the child of the savior of the Wizarding World is dating the  _male_  child of a former-Death Eater.”  
  
  
The hurt in Albus's eyes turns to anger. The burning, righteous kind that's always made Scorpius wonder if he should've been sorted Gryffindor, after all. “You  _know_  I don't care what anyone thinks--”  
  
  
“But  _I do_ , Potter. I  _have_  to. I'm a Malfoy. That name still holds unpleasant connotations, whether you choose to acknowledge them or not. Consequences you can't begin to understand, and that I frankly hope you never do. You've never been lonely or friendless or afraid because of your name. Never been shunned or spat at or ignored because of it.” Scorpius looks away from the sudden understanding on Albus's face, in his eyes; it's too gentle and loving to be pity, but . . . nearly unbearable for all that. “You can do a lot better than that, than me. I know it, the world knows it, and if they knew about us . . . they'd badger you and hassle you until you realized it, too.”  
  
  
Albus shakes his head, untidy, over-long hair flopping in tandem. “That will never happen.”  
  
  
“The hell it  _won't_. It's inevitable. You're the smartest person I've ever met, and even though it's taking you awhile, the time will come when being with me won't be worth the sneaking around, and censure when we're eventually found out, and. . . .” Scorpius takes a deep breath and tries to smile. Judging from the look on Albus's face, he's not making a go of it. “I'm trying to keep that day as far off in the future as possible, alright? So, please,  _ma lumière_ \--let me go. It's for the best.”  
  
  
Albus opens his mouth as if to argue, then shakes his head again. “You're wrong,” he says softly, squeezing Scorpius's hand. “You've no idea how wrong you are. I just wish you had a little more faith in me. But I guess . . . I  _don't_  know what it's like to be a Malfoy. I don't know what you've had to go through having that name, or all the hurts you've suffered because of it. But there has to be something that'll convince you that nothing anyone says or does will change how I feel for you?”  
  
  
“There isn't,” Scorpius admits, in a rare moment of bare-bones honesty. Such a question deserves nothing less.  _Albus_  deserves nothing less, but the last thing Scorpius wants is to make him upset. “Though this will almost certainly change in future, when it comes to me, you are, at present, incapable of thinking with anything other than your prick. Or worse, your ridiculous heart.”  
  
  
"You like my ridiculous heart."  
  
  
"And your prick as well, I hope that's tacitly understood."  
  
  
That gets a laugh, which in turn lightens the atmosphere between them. Albus cups Scorpius's face in both his hands and gazes steadily into his eyes. “Both prick and heart belong to you, and always will.” He brushes their noses lightly, deliberately--owl kisses, they call it--then their lips, in a more conventional sort of kiss.  
  
  
No, there's nothing Albus can say, but each and every kiss, whether hard and hungry, or slow and soft, does it's not inconsiderable best to level the remains of Scorpius's resolve. "I should be getting back to the Alley. . . ."  
  
  
"Or you could stay. . . ?" The words are transmitted more by breath and motion than by sound, so lowly are they spoken. Scorpius can taste Albus's hope on his tongue, and wonders if Albus can taste his regret just as well.  
  
  
“ _Mon coeur, je t'aime, je t'aime_  . . . I can't. . . .”  
  
  
"You  _can_ \--"  
  
  
A throat is cleared from across the room and, startled, Scorpius pulls away. He turns toward the sound, expecting to see a freckled, grinning, Weasley face emerge from a narrow doorway. Instead, a pale face and dark hair, attached to a man that could be Albus's double, but for his height (lack thereof) and age, steps into the sitting room.   
  
  
"Buggering boggarts, it's--” Scorpius squeaks, and is cut off before he can add  _Harry-bloody-Potter!_  by Albus's foot landing squarely, painfully on his own.  
  
  
Familiar green eyes tick from Albus's face, to Albus's foot on Scorpius's, to Scorpius's wide-eyed, grimacing face, then back to Albus's . . . without once losing that pleasantly neutral expression. "So, how was the Alley, kids?"  
  
  
"Er . . . rather less of a madhouse than usual, but still, I'm glad I got all my shopping done early, this year." Albus sounds only mildly chagrined, as if he has  _no idea_  who he's chatting with so cavalierly. As if he hasn't just pulverized every bone in Scorpius's foot. "Has the guest of honor put in an appearance, yet?"  
  
  
"James took Gillian Clearwater for a drive, a little while ago. Ostensibly to get some air and show her around town." A subtle shrug of familiarly broad shoulders, and those green eyes--eyes that saw Lord Voldemort fall not once, not twice, but  _three_  times--are so,  _so_  much like Albus's that, to Scorpius's horror, he's strongly, mortifyingly attracted to his boyfriend's father.  
  
  
At least until those Dark Lord-Slayer eyes tick back to him; then he's just quietly terrified.  
  
  
"You must be Scorpius, then,"  _the_  Dark Lord-Slayer, Harry Potter says, and it doesn't sound like a question or a condemnation. But it does make him hyper-aware of Albus's hand still in his, especially when Harry Potter steps forward, his own hand held out to be shaken.  
  
  
It takes a long moment for Scorpius to realize that he won't have to let go of Albus's hand (which he has a white-knuckled death-grip on) to make his manners.  
  
  
"Yes, sir, Mr. Potter, um. Sir." He goes on shaking well after he's finished speaking--it's like shaking Albus's hand: large, calloused, but careful--until Harry Potter frees his hand with a fleeting, wry sort of smile. The same one Albus gets when some misguided First Year gets stammer-y about "the son of Harry Potter". Then he runs his hand through silvering hair in dire need of trimming and styling, and he's just  _Albus's dad_ : an ordinary, still confusingly attractive older wizard in jeans and a Holyhead Harpies jumper that's so old the player featured on it--another redhead, sharp-featured and pretty, with a look of fierce, pursed-lip concentration that's identical to Albus's--doesn't even move anymore.  
  
  
"I'd ask you to call me Harry,” Albus's dad says, “but few people ever seem to, except this rowdy lot." He nods at the Weasleys photos adorning every available surface.  
  
  
All those Weasleys are still intimidating, even if Albus's dad isn't--not exactly--anymore. And without any clue how to stop himself, Scorpius does what he always does when he's intimidated: draws the tatters of Malfoy pride around him like a cloak, and searches for something to pick at scathingly. Which isn't that difficult, considering his environs.  
  
  
Then Albus's arms are sliding around his waist, and he's being pulled close again before he can do more than briefly squawk his protest at displays of affection in front of a  _parent_.  
  
  
"Behave," Albus murmurs in his ear, taking the opportunity to kiss it, as well. Then he says, much louder: "Dad, I'm going to introduce Scorpius around, before James gets back, alright?"  
  
  
Mr. Potter makes a face. "You know Jamie--always late, but never never. Oh, and Mum and Uncle Ron got started trying to de-gnome Grandma Molly's garden for some reason, and it's . . . not going well. You'll be stepping into a small-scale war-zone," he warns.  
  
  
Albus snorts. "At least Aunt 'Mione and Uncle Percy had the sense to stay out of it, this time. The rest of the family's in the Orchard?"  
  
  
“Everyone except Uncle Charlie and Oliver, who I'm about to fire-call. And fair warning to you both, Gran's on tenterhooks about meeting 'Albus's young man.'” Mr. Potter grins, and it's nothing like Albus's grin--more like an amused quirking of the mouth and quick flash of teeth. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Scorpius."  
  
  
"Likewise, sir. Er--Harry?" At the the upward curve of smile and eyebrows, Scorpius falters, wishing the sitting room weren't so abominably hot. "Um. Mr. Potter. Sir."  
  
  
"Right. We'll just be outside," Albus says, gently but firmly guiding Scorpius past Mr. Potter--who's really quite short for a hero, and _still_  dismayingly sexy for a dad. . . .  
  
  
Scorpius is steered into the sea of mismatched furniture and through it.  _Albus's_  grin greets him from the photos that line the walls, and he realizes that he's not just in love with a Potter, he's in love with a  _Weasley_.  
  
  
 _Father's going to shit sickles, when he finds out. . . ._  
  
  
As they approach a twisting, structurally unsound-looking staircase, Albus lets out a breath, the hand on Scorpius's waist slipping 'round to rest on his stomach. "That went very well."  
  
  
"You think so, do you?" Scorpius turns and pushes Albus against the wall under the staircase and glares up into his eyes. "You're an arse, Albus Potter!"  
  
  
"Well, I knew if I told you ahead of time, you'd just freak out, and act all . . . how you act when you're intimidated!"  
  
  
"I'm certain I don't know what you're talking about," Scorpius huffs then blushes when the almost contrite look on Albus's face becomes stern disbelief. "Fine. But I didn't have time to prepare and I looked a right prat in front of your dad."  
  
  
"On the contrary, you were amazing." Albus pulls him close and brushes the tips of their noses. It's impossible to stay angry after an owl-kiss . . . that quickly turns into a real kiss that's just as sweet. "He liked you, I can tell."   
  
  
Scorpius sighs and leans against him, letting his legs be bracketed by longer ones. Normally this sort of full frontal contact would be nothing short of inadvisable. Here and now, it's a much-needed reassurance. "You really think he liked me?"  
  
  
"I  _know_  he did. He's a good judge of people, and so'm I. So's the rest of the family, for that matter."  
  
  
"Oh, suffering snidgets--there's still your  _mum_  to meet, isn't there?" Remembering that determined face glaring at him from Mr. Potter's jumper, Scorpius sighs, hiding his face in Albus's shirt. “AK me, right now.”  
  
  
"I'll admit, Mum can be a bit . . . overprotective. But I think she'll like you, too,” Albus murmurs into his hair, running soothing hands up and down his back. “Better than she likes garden gnomes, anyway."  
  
  
"Brilliant, Potter. Thanks.” But a brief laugh escapes him. “You  _do_  realize that I'm a Malfoy, hence no one likes me."  
  
  
" _Loads_  of people like you-- _I_  like you, you big girl's blouse, which is the entire point of bringing you here." Albus chuckles, turning Scorpius's face up to his own again. Even in the dim hallway, his eyes are sparkling and bright. "You're smart, and funny, and _infuriating_ , and beautiful and . . . I love you. Mum knows that, and that's half the battle won, right there. Once she--once the family sees how wonderful you are, they'll all fall in love with you, too."  
  
  
Scorpius's heart skips several beats and it's a very good thing he's got Albus and a wall to keep him upright. "Lies . . . all lies to make me feel better." Though he does, and it must show, because Albus captures his lips in one of those wanton, surprising kisses. And this one involves more than a few inappropriate-for-this-setting caresses.   
  
  
But just when Scorpius's propriety--and, incidentally, his nerves--have gone the way of the Augery, Albus breaks the kiss. “Later, around sunset, we'll commandeer a blanket, hike a little up-river, and I'll finish what we just started. That's a promise.”  
  
  
"Merlin, it'd better be,” Scorpius breathes, and laughs, opening his eyes. Albus's are dancing and deep at the same time. “Not that I'm complaining, but you didn't used to be this bold, Potter.”  
  
  
“I didn't used to spend two months without seeing you or touching you.” Albus runs his thumb along Scorpius lower lip with the singular concentration he brings to all his studies, then traces the upper. “C'mon . . . everyone's dying to meet you.”  
  
  
“You've gone mental, as it were, if you think I'm currently capable of meeting your family with any amount of poise, when such a lovely promise hangs over my head,” Scorpius purrs, wishing he could Apparate them directly to his bedroom. He's already a quick hand with  _Divestio_.  
  
  
"Let's see . . . it's either go meet my family, or stay here and explain what we're doing under the stairs, breathless and disheveled, when my  _Dad_  walks out of the sitting room. Or when Mum comes in to wash her hands--”  
  
  
But--his abused foot forgotten--Scorpius is already dragging a laughing Albus down the narrow hall; toward the open door at the far end, and the Weasleys on the other side. “Laugh it up, Potter. We'll see just how funny this is when it's  _your_  turn to meet  _my_ father.”  
  
  
Scorpius glances back, expecting to see expressions ranging from displeasure to outright disgust--the usual response of someone presented with the option of meeting a Malfoy--flit across Albus's face. But what he sees is the same smitten smile that he himself had been guilty of earlier.  
  
  
“I can't wait,” Albus says as they emerge into golden, mid-afternoon sunshine.  
  



	5. James Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title says it all. Written for the slashthedrabble prompt "straight".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Didn't do it.  
> Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e, just before their Seventh Year.

James is. . . .  
  
  
James . . . is many things. First-born, favorite (though in more self-reflective moments, he knows this to be untrue).   
  
  
James is self-reliant. Mischievous--occasionally prankish . . . but trustworthy. Responsible.  
  
  
James is . . . a considerate boyfriend--for the two seconds a girl can capture his fickle attention (Gilly Clearwater's surprisingly held his for several months, now).  
  
  
James  _is_  the new Beater for the Chudley Cannons reserve team, and James  _will be_  the youngest captain in the history of professional Quidditch.  
  
  
(James is a strong believer in personal destiny.)  
  
  
James is overprotective--a true Gryffindor, heart and soul, when it comes to the welfare of his family. Especially his siblings.  
  
  
James is watching his little brother-- _younger_  brother, Albus is always the first to point out the gap in their ages as negligible--tug Scorpius Malfoy firmly away from a gaggle of flirting female cousins, before leaning in to brush loose, shoulder-length platinum hair behind Malfoy's ear to whisper. . . .  
  
  
James is surprised to see that Malfoy colors rather fetchingly, even in the lurid light of sunset; his mouth curves coyly, and just so. When Albus gestures at the blanket tucked under his arm then nods almost imperceptibly toward the river, that coy smile becomes a grin that can't decide whether it's wide or wicked. Malfoy's hand slips into Albus's, and they discreetly make their way out of the Orchard.  
  
  
James is noticing this, as is everyone else. But unlike them, James  _isn't_  smiling--doesn't find their closeness and self-absorption _just darling_ , no. . . .   
  
  
James is consumed by something a good deal less fuzzy and indulgent.   
  
  
James is very powerfully envious. This rare, darker streak runs deep within him, but wider than a country mile. Growing, as his brother, and his brother's--they're not lovers, not yet, not if James is any judge of such things--boyfriend are limned in, dwindle into garish wester-light.  
  
  
James is doubtful that Malfoy feels as strongly for Albus, as Albus does for him--nevermind that Albus has smiled more in the past ten months than he had his entire life before that;  
  
  
nevermind that when Malfoy watches Albus (and is equally unaware that he, too, is being watched) his pointed, austere features soften, become . . . human. Warm. Lovely;  
  
  
and nevermind that Malfoy seems miles away from the pompous, effete prig James had first noticed back in Fifth Year. . . .  
  
  
James is  _not_  given to an excess of inappropriate emotions, yet he finds himself filled with covetousness and regret.  
  
  
Anger and  _want_  .  
  
  
 _James_  is in the midst of his own celebration--today, the reserves; tomorrow, the captaincy!--and unable to celebrate.  
  
  
James is. . . .   
  
  
“Son?”  
  
  
. . . suddenly looking into his father's stern green eyes.  _Albus_ 's eyes. “Gillian's making her good-bye rounds. Why don't you see her home?”  
  
  
“Right, I . . . right, thanks, Dad.”  
  
  
His father nods thoughtfully, starts to say something else, but James is already shouldering through clusters of relatives, not looking back at the gaudy sunset. For James is  _many_  things, but most importantly--  
  
  
\--James is straight.


	6. A Certain Kind of Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Written for the slashthedrabble prompt # 167, Eagles song titles. "Certain Kind of Fool".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e by six years, part of the AS/S-verse. Can be read as a standalone. Set in beginning of Seventh Year.

  
It takes a certain kind of fool to bear up under the trials of teenage life.  
  
  
His lips moving absently, one such fool pores over a textbook, completely oblivious to the eyes on him (even the professors are watching as if expecting a sordid floor show in the middle of supper). Pristine glasses are perched near the end of his nose, one twitch away from the bowl of soup that's being methodically emptied with no more attention than he gives anything that isn't his studies or his boyfriend.  
  
  
Said boyfriend pinches his arm savagely.  
  
  
“Ow!” Albus exclaims, spraying a mouthful of soup on his book. He gapes at Scorpius. “Have you gone completely mental?”   
  
  
Scorpius inclines his head toward the room at large. “Have  _you_?” he hisses, leaning in to do so, aware of the expectant murmur that ripples through the hall. It takes all his training, and every ounce of the icy Malfoy blood in his veins not to hex them all, Albus included. “It's  _your_  bloody fault they're staring at us, Potter, or don't you care?”  
  
  
Albus looks around curiously; almost everyone goes back to their meals, or pretends to. Albus nods and smiles genially at the ones who don't.  
  
  
He then aims that smile at Scorpius, who could cheerfully transfigure him into a near-sighted newt. He's even reaching for his wand when Albus leans closer.  
  
  
“I love you, Scorpius,” he says softly, and the wand is forgotten because that's not a phrase Malfoys hear often--and certainly not from Potters . . . even this one. “And no, I don't care who knows.”  
  
  
Scorpius's heart slams painfully against his ribcage, but he'll be Kissed before he shows it to this lot. “The whole world knowing you love me is different than the full-color proof of it splashed across the front page of the  _Prophet_!”   
  
  
(Complete with the headline  ** _Potter Princeling Caught Canoodling With Pureblood Poppet!_** )  
  
  
“It was only a snog . . . and, er, a bit of a grope.” Albus grins wickedly in remembrance. “What--afraid your parents'll send you a Howler?”  
  
  
Scorpius huffs. Squares his shoulders. “Malfoys don't get Howlers, Potter.”  
  
  
“Malfoys also don't care what the hoi polloi think, as I recall.” Albus's eyes dart to Scorpius's mouth, and he slowly closes the distance between them for a lingering kiss. The chattering Hall falls into silence. . . .  
  
  
Suddenly the kiss, and that pin-drop silence is broken by the familiar  _OOH-hu_  of an eagle owl.  
  
  
"Shite!” Scorpius immediately hides his face on Albus's bony shoulder, though hiding will do no good.   
  
  
This is confirmed when he looks up to see his father's personal owl, Xerxes, winging their way.   
  
  
“Merlin's left  _bollock_!” he moans as Albus's arm slides around him comfortingly.   
  
  
“Blimey. I thought you said Malfoys don't get Howlers?” A trembling red envelope lands in Scorpius's salad, and Albus prods it warily with his spoon. The agitated twitching intensifies, and Scorpius hides his face once more as the envelope unfolds itself.  
  
  
“Occasionally, even  _I_  can be wrong, Potter.”


	7. The Persistence of Slytherins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the slashthedrabble prompt "habit". Scorpius has a habit of underestimating them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e, around Yule of their Seventh Year.

“We . . . should talk.”

 

If my mouth weren't currently occupied, I'd laugh, then ask you if you're joking. As it is, such an inane statement hardly seems excuse or reason enough to skive off such a pleasant task.

 

When I don't answer, your fingers rake through my hair tenderly. I let  _my_  fingers bite a bit deeper into your thighs, and raise my eyes to meet yours. As always, I'm startled by that green, like a handful emeralds left in a near-lightless place.

 

“About . . . your plans . . . for the future.”

 

What plans would those be? I query, with a slight raise of my eyebrows and a low, unfurling hum that makes your eyes roll back before fluttering shut. I smile my victory around you. This, then, marks the end of nonsense about futures and plans: the way your hand clenches in my hair. The controlled thrust of your hips stuttering into a faster, more selfish rhythm. . . .

 

Yes, all these are signs that I've yet again diverted this annoying belief of yours--that a  _Malfoy_  could be an Auror--into the Aether.

 

I swallow reflexively around you--around words that'd do no Earthly good. 

 

I do so hate it when we row.

 

You moan my name, and it seems muffled by the linens around us. On the highest shelf, my wand glows with a steady  _Lumos_.

 

(We discovered early on that your magic tends to be wildly erratic and volatile at the moment of climax. Shortly thereafter, we discovered that linens aren't flame retardant.)

 

I breathe through my nose and relax my throat. Soon, crisp black curls tickle my face, and I hum around you again, letting my eyes slip shut. All the easier to drown in the taste and scent of you, musky and clean--better by far than the herb bundles the house elves leave to keep the linens fresh.

 

“You're right. No point talking about it . . . already forged your signature . . . sent your application off,” you pant, a smug hint of smirk in your voice.

 

That little admission forces a startled exclamation up my throat that almost has me gagging around you. Your eyes fly open, lovely and vacant. “Fuck,” you sigh softly, hand clenching tight and hips jerking forward  _hard_  once, twice, a third time as I instinctively pull back to catch the taste of you, bitter and familiar on my tongue. 

 

Whether from that taste, the helpless hitch of your voice, or a silly, stupid glimmer of what-if, I'm . . . I'm . . . oh, my Love. . . .

 

And then you're pulling me up, fumbling at my placket with eager hands, but I've already found my release.

 

Your fierce, possessive eyes meet mine before you're kissing and licking the taste of yourself off my lips.

 

Oh, my Heart, my Only--my  _Everything_  . . . why are you such a high-handed controlling little despot?

 

“Because I love you,” you breathe into my mouth, like life itself, and I--

 

I didn't realize I'd spoken aloud.

  



	8. Making Friends With Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the slashthedrabble prompt "wounds/wounded", and for vinniebatman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Didn't do it.  
> Notes/Warnings: Post-DH/e, eight years. Part of the AS/S-verse, set one year or so after this ficlet. Possible squick, you've been warned.

You're the wind. You're sunshine and sky.  
  
  
I suppose that's not surprising, since wind, sunshine and sky are my favorite things, and you're easily my favorite person.    
  
  
Being with you is like . . . flying.  
  
  
Those careful, intelligent hands--large enough to palm quaffles: you'd have made a cracking Chaser--pull me down on top of you, and those long, pipe-cleaner legs wrap 'round me like Devil's Snare.  
  
  
You sigh against my cheek, then once again in my ear, heavy and humid. Your body arches up suddenly, your prick hot and hard against mine . . . Merlin . . . how have I gone so long without having you like this?  
  
  
Exactly.  Like.   _This_.  
  
  
My face is pressed to the damp hollow between neck and shoulder--I've barely two fingers in you, and you're keening:  _now, now . . . oh, Merlin,_  now.  I'm helpless but to obey. (I'd march straight into perdition just a for a taste of you, but to be enveloped in this incredible,  _impossible_  heat . . . in  _you_?  
  
  
You're home, to me, Al: everything that's right, and true, and mine.  
  
  
Because you  _aren't his_ , despite what you both think.  You're  _mine_ , still mine, like you've always been--like you always will be.  
  
  
I love you, so how could it be otherwise?)  
  
  
No matter how badly I want to watch my prick sliding in and out of you, watch your body take it and beg for more, I have to see your eyes . . . see them focus on mine. See you smile because you  _see me_ , at last. The first, and probably only person to ever do so.   
  
  
 _I love you with everything that I am._  
  
  
"Yes, like that. . . ." you hiss, flinging your head back into the pillows.  For a moment, you stand out in relief so sharp, I could count every rib, see every hair, chart every urgent spasm. “Scorpius--”  
  
  
The moment ends--damn you for  _saying that name_ , chanting it while painting our bodies in spatters of white that wound like bullets--burn like acid, eating away skin and flesh, heart and hope, even as I pour myself into you with a despairing yell.  
  
  
Merlin, I'm  _crashing_ , not flying. Not fucking, but  _fucking up_ : like attempting the Wronski Feint in Second year, then waking up in the Hospital Wing. Only there's no you. No worried, red-and-green Christmas eyes waiting for me, no squeaky-stern voice berating me for being such a  _Gryffindork_ \--  
  
  
I bolt upright in my own bed to sticky, clinging sheets; to darkness, and a terrible, gnawing loneliness that doesn't ever end because even if you saw me, you'd never, ever forgive me.  
  
  
I run unsteady hands over my face, cast a half-arsed  _Scourgify_ , and lay back down, pretending your arms, warm and relaxed with sleep, have sought me out. That I can wrap myself in the sweet, imagined light of your love, and finally hear  _James_ , murmured fondly in my ear. . . .  
  
  
No. Better to make friends with the empty, suffocating darkness: experience has taught me dawn won't be any brighter.


	9. Seeker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the slashthedrabble prompt “wound/ wounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Didn't do it.  
> Notes/Warnings: Post-DH/E one year. Set at the end of James's second year, Albus's first. A prequel to Making Friends With Darkness.

“You really are the quintessential Gryffindork, aren't you?”  
  
  
It's the first thing Jamie hears when he comes to in hospital. The first thing he sees is his little brother.  
  
  
His very angry little brother.  
  
  
Well,  _incensed_  would be the word Al would use. He's rather fond of the large ones--to make up for his lack of height, Jamie secretly thinks.  
  
  
“What happened?” He glances around, though doing so is effortful, and makes the room spin. So he's quite surprised when Al punches him in the shoulder with a bony fist. “Ow! Wanker!”  
  
  
“You didn't pull out of a Wronski Feint quick enough, is what happened!” Al seethes, and Jamie notices he isn't wearing his glasses. His green, green eyes are dancing  _incensedly_  in a sea of irritated red . . . like Christmas. “You've a concussion. It'll be another day before you're let out, and at least another week before you're broomworthy--”  
  
  
“A whole week!”  
  
  
Jamie also notices that Al glares just like mum . . . his entire body seeming to vibrate with the force of it. Well, what little body there is: he's such a runty, tiny thing. Quite unlike Jamie, who's already as tall as most Fifth Years, and as sturdily built.  
  
  
Al sighs, and lays his hand on Jamie's. It's cool, dry, and the only thing on him that isn't small.  
  
  
“James--” he starts earnestly. (He's always been such an earnest, solemn boy. After ten months, Jamie still thinks the Hat went temporarily barking when Al was actually Sorted Slytherin). “You know you don't have to keep playing Seeker--or play Quidditch at all?”  
  
  
Suddenly, Jamie isn't sure  _he_ 's the only one who's concussed. “What're you on about? Me?  _Not_  play Quidditch?”   
  
  
Al snorts. “What  _was_  I thinking? Yes, you're brilliant at it: fast, intuitive, willing to take risks. But you  _must_  know that  _you_ 'll never make captain chasing a snitch.”  
  
  
. . . Jamie can't remember the crash, but he also can't imagine it hurting worse than this. . . .  
  
  
He rolls onto his side away from Al, though it makes his head throb harder. Closes his eyes to stop the renewed spinning, and the tears . . . bloody concussion. “This isn't Charms, Al; you're out of your depth.”  
  
  
The bed shifts slightly as Al sits. “Gryffindor'll be needing a new Beater next year, and I'm sure Teddy and Uncle George'd be falling all over themselves to teach you everything they know. With that blighter, Planky, as captain, Gryffindor'll need all the edge it can get.”  
  
  
Jamie laughs, watery and derisive. He recognizes a tentative--temporary--detente when he hears one. After all, Al's never one to initiate chats about sports.   
  
  
“ _Planxty_ 's not that bad.” Planxty is, in fact, a shite captain, but captain nonetheless.  
  
  
That comforting hand settles on his shoulder. “Perhaps not. But you'll be loads better.”  
  
  
They debate Planxty's merits, or lack thereof, until Madame Pomfrey doses Jamie with something that smells like tripe, but tastes like apple butter.  
  
  
As the thudding stops, Al's soft voice follows him into velvety, dreamless darkness.


	10. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the slashthedrabble prompt “promise”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Didn't do it.  
> Notes/Warnings: Post-DH/e by six years. Set in the summer after James's Seventh year. A companion piece to the ficlet "James Is."

"Your nephew's mad," Oliver declares, watching James captivate a crowd of his friends.  
  
  
"Oh, I don't know. He looks to be doin' alright, to me,” Charlie murmurs, and Oliver follows his gaze to where the Malfoy boy is standing--straight-backed and obviously overwhelmed, surrounded by Weasley women, each with that master-interrogator look on her face. No doubt that if not for Al's arm around him, the poor boy'd be halfway to Wiltshire, by now.  
  
  
Oliver remembers that feeling far too well, nearly a decade on.  
  
  
"He's not the nephew I meant.  _James_ \--the most talented Beater Gryffindor's produced in . . . ever--has signed on with the Cannons! Madness!"  
  
  
“Not everyone wants to play for United, Oliver." Charlie sweeps the toddler that's just latched onto his leg--Ron and Hermione's youngest, growing like a weed--up into his arms for a kiss and a hug, not minding the sticky little fingers that weave themselves into his hair.  
  
  
"There's a huge bloody difference between  _not playing_  for United, and  _playing for_  the Cannons!”  
  
  
Two pairs of bright blue eyes glow with amusement, and Oliver feels ganged up on. "That scary vein at your temple is throbbing, love."  
  
  
“Love, love, loooooove!” Rory bounces happily, nearly spilling himself out of Charlie's arms.  
  
  
“Is not,” Oliver mutters, glaring at man and boy, neither of whom pay him any mind except to laugh. “Be serious!”  
  
  
“But it's so much easier to let you be serious for the both of us. You're  _awfully_  good at it." Charlie leans in and kisses Oliver's temple fondly. "Honestly, if I pricked your finger right now, there'd be arterial spray on the grass. Steady on."  
  
  
"'Steady on'? This is James's entire life! His whole future!"  
  
  
"No, this is James's  _career_  which, as we both have learnt, isn't by any lights an entire life or whole future."  
  
  
"Really?” Oliver glances at James, still engrossed in entertaining his friends. “He eats Quidditch, sleeps Quidditch--by Merlin, he'd breathe it if he could! He can't keep a serious girl because Quidditch puts them all in the back seat. He's so wrapped up in his own promise that he's missing out on  _everything_ , for a team that's not even worth the sacrifice, when all's said and done! He's--"  
  
  
"The spit and image of you at eighteen?"  
  
  
James and all his friends laugh, and Oliver sighs, turning to face Charlie. “Aye. And we both know how my life turned out."  
  
  
Yes . . . a failed marriage and a strained--at best--relationship with his grown children.  
  
  
"Oh. . . .” Charlie and Rory grin the same Weasley grin, topped by shining eyes, ginger hair and freckles. “I don't think it turned out _too_  terribly.”  
  
  
Rory reaches out, crowing something that sounds like  _Unc' Ovver_. . . !  
  
  
Smiling (just a little), Oliver takes the grimy, squirmy little squirt from Charlie. Kids smell like sugar and dirt no matter whose they are. “Perhaps not. But the Cannons? Your nephew  _is_  mad, you know that?”   
  
  
Charlie's lips twitch. “At least he comes by it honestly.”  
  



	11. The Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James turns to Albus for a little clarity. Title shamelessly stolen from Alan Watts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Didn't do it.  
> Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e, by eleven years, following the "James Is" and "Promise" ficlets by nearly three years.

"So, at exactly what age did you decide having a prick up the arse daily was for you?"  
  
  
At first, Al is only capable of blinking and gaping--sleepily, at that. Then sentience struggles out from behind the fog, and a cavernous--slightly frightening, truth be told--yawn splits his face. He hunkers down in front of the floo and sighs. "Let's see . . . about the same time you decided having Erumpent shit for brains was for you, so pretty early on. Arse. Why the fuck are you fire-calling me at four a.m. on a Wednesday, asking me about my sexual orientation?"   
  
  
"Figured you'd be home, didn't I? And I can't believe you kiss our mother with that mouth!" James's flickering, fiery image shakes with crackling laughter. "One side, prat, I'm coming through."   
  
  
His head disappears then reappears--accompanied by the rest of him.   
  
  
Only years of putting up with James's antics (he's even more of a catastrophic mess than their father, when it comes to flooing. Though he took to Apparating like a fish to water) prepares Al for James's solid body barreling into his own, bearing them both to the floor with a resounding thump . . . the sound of Al's head hitting the hard wood floor.   
  
  
Sadly, he doesn't see stars. All he sees is James's dark eyes and infernal grin. Trebled.  
  
  
As if one of the blighter isn't plague enough.  
  
  
"Well. Aren't you the worst landing pad ever created? You make a better coat-rack than a cushion." James grins, seemingly content to lay atop him like a large, rather dim-witted hound.  
  
  
 _A_ drunken _dim-witted hound,_  Al amends, catching a whiff of his brother's breath. Hardly the first time James's showed up in the middle of the night, thoroughly pissed, though it happens slightly less since Al moved in with Scorpius six months ago.  
  
  
"You're incorrigible--and a danger to others." He shoves a laughing James off him and sits up, rubbing the back of his head. No lump. At least not yet.  
  
  
"Oh, we both know you've inherited mum's hard head. You're fine, Albie." James sits up to muss Al's hair obnoxiously, only to laugh harder, when Al smacks his hand away and shoves him again.   
  
  
He  _hates_  that bloody nickname.  
  
  
"I'm seriously considering having you blocked from our floo," he says, but James merely flops back on the floor and sighs. His normally stylishly tousled hair is simply tousled. His normally stylishly rumpled clothes merely rumpled. And his shirt is buttoned wrong.  
  
  
It's occurred to Al to wonder why, after a night of drunken tom-catting, James more often than not winds up on his doorstep instead of in his own bed, but he's yet to come up with a logical answer. To that, or the question on the minds of many: why on Earth can't James be faithful to the girlfriend he claims to care so much for.  
  
  
 _I don't know how she puts up with him. How any of them do. It's truly amazing he hasn't been hexed prickless by now,_  Al thinks, watching his older-- _hah_!--brother wheeze hysterically at the backs of his eyelids.  
  
  
"Idiot," Al sighs, getting to his feet and offering his hand. It's several--sporadically giggly--minutes before James can be arsed to take it, staggering when Al pulls him to his feet without assistance. He drapes his arms around Al's neck and hugs him as if they haven't seen each other in weeks. His face is hot and damp on Al's bare shoulder.  
  
  
"My . . . aren't we full of fellow-feeling this fine morning?" Al pries this oddly clingy brother off him, and steers him toward the couch, somehow managing to bark his shin on the coffee table, whereas James, in all his inebriated glory, weaves gracefully around the heavy, baroque furniture Scorpius favors. The flickering dimness of the room seems no hindrance to him at all.  
  
  
( _James is_ , it's to be noted, the most talented Beater to hold a bat in the past one hundred and ten years. His natural talent is enhanced by his childhood's Seeker grace and speed.   
  
  
That grace and speed have yet to be compromised even in his most pathetic moments. Like this moment is shaping up to be.)  
  
  
When this picture of young, masculine grace flops down onto the sofa, he immediately makes to put his feet up. "Nuh!" Al barks. "Trainers off--mum raised you better than that! And Scorpius'd have your spleen if he saw you just now! Mine, as well!"  
  
  
  
Rolling his eyes, James kicks off his trainers--one lands upside down on the pristine coffee table. He swings his legs up onto the couch and reclines amongst the wine-colored, velvet cushions with a hedonistic groan, seeming to be immediately comfortable, no shifting or wiggling. It's a trick Al has yet to learn--is not likely to learn, considering the way Scorpius glares if he even  _thinks_  Al is thinking about laying on the couch, trainers or not.  
  
  
"Do make yourself at home, won't you?"  
  
  
James's response is an amiable two-fingered salute then a goggle-eyed double take in the general vicinity of Al's boxer briefs.  
  
  
"You're not dressed," he notes somewhat breathlessly--still winded from the tumble through the floo and all that ridiculous giggling, no doubt.  
  
  
"Well-spotted, Jamie. Guess what else I'm not: awake! Nor am I particularly ambulatory, thanks to Scorpius." Al shuffles to his leather recliner, one of many Muggle mod-cons Scorpius claims to disdainfully tolerate--such as their refrigerator, home theater system, and microwave--and eases himself down with a wince. “So you can imagine how thrilled I was to be summoned by your dulcet bellow.”  
  
  
James eyes him with murky disapproval, his mouth thinning to an ungenerous line. "I really didn't need to know that, and--for Merlin's sake! Put some clothes on!"  
  
  
Al's eyebrows shoot up. "I was on the verge of a long and restful sleep--something that's in short supply, lately--when you so considerately started shouting bloody murder from the floo. You're lucky I could be bothered to pull on pants."  
  
  
At James's mullish silence, Al mutters, “fine.  _Vestus Raimentum_ ,” and is suddenly wearing raggedy knee-length cut-offs and a faded Screaming Trolls t-shirt, on which the Trolls in question caper only sluggishly.   
  
  
Thus caparisoned, he crosses one bony ankle over one knobby knee. "Are your precious sensibilities appeased, then, big sister?"  
  
  
"Almost." James makes a brief flicking gesture with one hand, and Al yelps as his hair untwists, unknots, and falls around face and shoulders. Into his eyes, but not before he sees James smirk.   
  
  
(It's bad enough having an older brother who knows he's magic's gift to  _everyone_ \--worse when that brother can bear this out with sheer strength of magical will, and a little-known ability to perform wandless,  _wordless_  spells. Some of them fairly high-level.)  
  
  
After a few speechless moments, Al pushes back thick dark fringe--swearing vehemently and slouching back in his recliner when it flops forward again. "You're a right hairy pair of bollocks, you know! It'll cost me five galleons to have that charm reset!"  
  
  
"Here's two knuts worth of sound advice: save yourself five galleons," James says solemnly, then grins. "Honestly, you looked ridiculous. Like the drummer for a Weird Sisters cover band. No one else has the stones to tell you, but me."  
  
  
"None of the Weird Sisters ever had dreadlocks," is Al's huffy reply. He picks up a lock of hair and lets it drop disgustedly. He won't have time to get it redone for at least a week. "And Scorpius liked them just fine."  
  
  
" _Scorpius_  is shagging you, little brother. He couldn't care less if you spelled your arms purple and called yourself 'Maureen'." James snorts and sinks back further into the cushions. His eyes are a bit more focused, but half-lidded and unreadable. He's got five o'clock shadow that's fast approaching midnight, and looks quite rakish in a magazine heart-throb sort of way. Or like someone playing the role of a cocky, streetwise young Auror in a WWN serial. "Speaking of insufferable gits, where's yours? Still asleep?"  
  
  
"He's not a git, nor is he insufferable. He got called out for something training-related, and likely won't be back 'til this evening," Al says more ruefully than he means to, and James . . . for a wonder, doesn't take the piss. Merely tilts his head back and closes his eyes.  
  
  
"Best get used to that, hadn't you, Albus?" he says softly. "You remember how it was when we were little, and Dad was still a field Auror. Four nights out of seven he never got in before we were in bed, and the other nights he never got in at all."  
  
  
"I remember," Al murmurs, leaning back himself and pinching the bridge of his nose. The world sharpens briefly, before slipping back to it's usual fuzzy blur. He really should  _Accio_  his glasses. "It's not that I'm not glad Scorpius is doing what he's always wanted, it's just . . . I thought that after school, we'd be together all the time, you know? Spend our days talking and our nights shagging, then wake up and do it all over again, but--between his training, and my bloody apprenticeships, I see him much less now than I ever did at Hogwarts."  
  
  
And thinking of school brings with it pangs of homesickness he's never felt for the Burrow, or even the house he grew up in. He _misses_  school, misses his House. Misses watching the sunset on the lake while holding hands with Scorpius. Misses all the strange nooks one could find to hide in, or snog in--well,  _get caught_  snogging in, to be precise. For Slytherins, he and Scorpius had been amazingly bad at sneaking around. . . .  
  
  
"It's not  _that_  bad, is it?" James is pinching the bridge of his own nose. Most likely staving off an epic hangover, rather than cursing his perfect vision. “At least you  _are_  getting to shag without having to sneak around, like at school. For Snakes, the two of you were bloody awful at being discrete--or so I've heard. Now, you've got a flat together, warded against prying eyes, no Prefects to cost you House points--”  
  
  
Al sighs. "Yeah, it's . . . great. Really wonderful. Sort of. . . .” He's never been one to talk about their relationship with anyone besides Scorpius, but . . . say whatever else one might say about James, no one can keep a secret better, or for longer.  
  
  
 _And it's not like I can talk to Scorpius about this. It took so long to convince him to go after his dream--was such an uphill battle, what would it look like complaining now that we've both finally gotten what we wanted?_  
  
  
James still hasn't opened his eyes, is taking measured breaths through his nose. Al takes that as a sign to continue. "Tonight was the first time in weeks we've both been home, and in any state to do more than cuddle and fall asleep. And it was  _brilliant_  . . . until a Ministry owl swooped in halfway through the second time, all shrieking and startled." Al laughs a little, though at the time, watching Scorpius hop about, trying to pull on his trousers and shoo the owl--who was determined to get a reply and a treat before leaving--he'd nearly been ready to howl in frustration. "I don't know who was more traumatized, Scorpius, or the poor owl."  
  
  
Now he has James's bright-eyed attention, of course. Though he and Scorpius have been making an effort to get along since that much-publicized Wizards' Duel last year--after which it'd taken Al nearly washing his hands of them both, and Dad threatening to toss them into Azkaban for a few days to cool off to achieve even minimal civility--they're still barely tolerant of each other.   
  
  
And certainly, they both still like to see the other get knocked back, and make no real effort to hide the mean-spirited joy they get out of it. So no doubt, James is picturing a squawking, indignant Scorpius, and a frightened owl--both flapping about in embarrassment and bad temper.  
  
  
Yes, there's a distinctly interested light in those dark eyes that cannot come from contemplating anything wholesome.  
  
  
James suddenly clears his throat and looks everywhere  _but_  at Al, which only confirms Al's suspicions.   
  
  
"Look, you're nineteen. There's no such thing as 'enough sex' at your age. Or at twenty-one--or even at however old Dad is. There will probably never be enough. You just have to find a way to get what you need, when you need it. Sleep less, study less. Jump His Nibs as soon as he Apparates in. If he says he's too tired to shag, offer to do all the work. Beyond that . . . I don't know what to tell you. Shift some priorities, before they shift you."  
  
  
“I suppose.” Al doesn't bother to say that he's done all those things--on the rare occasions he has a dram more energy than Scorpius. And it works, but . . . Al simply doesn't have the energy that often. And when he does, either their careers intrude, or their families and friends. Or both.  
  
  
Case in point.  
  
  
"And anyway, how many apprenticeships do you actually need, to do--whatever it is you're planning on doing with yourself?" James grabs and fluffs a cushion before shoves it under his head. In the process, three more fall to the floor.  
  
  
The tiny, perpetually fussy Scorpius who lives inside of Al's head has an aneurysm.  
  
  
"Er . . . I plan on a Mastery of Magical Theory with special emphasis on Arithmancy . . . that's two apprenticeships, right there. And now the Ministry's hounding me to take an internship in the Department of Mysteries . . . but I'm not going to."  _Not yet, anyway_. Though the temptation to accept--if only for an hour, to be let loose to wander in dark, musty halls littered with dark, ancient magic. . . . "My apprenticeships are fairly intensive. If I don't slack, or run into anything unforeseen, I should have completed them in three more years, and achieved my Mastery in a decade total."  
  
  
James whistles, blinking away a habitual glazing of the eyes that happens when anyone starts talking about studies, or work that doesn't involve chasing one's arse about a Quidditch pitch. "Merlin's blessing on your ambition, but I'll admit, Al, I don't see why you're so mad for theory when practice's so much more . . .  _interesting_. Even I wouldn't turn my nose up at an internship in the Dee of Em."  
  
James  _wouldn't_  see, fond as he is of immediate results and instant gratification. Al, however, never lets his reach exceed his grasp. He'll walk into the Department of Mysteries as a Master in his chosen fields, and ready to run the place . . . or not at all. “I've chosen my career path very well, never you fear.” Al smiles. “And I know once Scorpius and I've got our lives sorted, there'll be plenty of years for talking, and shagging, and traveling, and--oh, all kinds of things. Patience and proper planning brings a pretty payoff, you know."  
  
  
"Not hardly!" James scoffs with sudden and inexplicable bitterness that's very quickly hidden with a pasteboard smile.   
  
  
Before Hogwarts, and even during their first few Years there, reading James was an easy thing. Like every other Weasley, he wore his open, unfailingly loyal heart on his sleeve. Not so, recently. And over the past few years--especially after Al began spending most of his free time with Scorpius instead of with his sibs and cousins--Al has somewhat lost the knack of James-reading.  
  
  
 _What,_  he wonders suddenly,  _could James, of all people, have to be bitter about?_  
  
  
"If there's one other thing I know, it's that the exact opposite is true--waiting and hoping nets you nothing but missed opportunities. You've got to seize the day, strike while the iron's hot." James's smile loses some of that strange falseness, becomes genuine. "But try telling Albus Potter that, and compare it to banging your head against a brick wall."  
  
  
"As if you aren't twice as stubborn for half the reason!" Al serves James's two-fingered salute right back to him. "So, my least favorite sibling, what really brings you to my flat pre-dawn? Shall I expect Hit-Wizards to break down my wards at any second?"  
  
  
James's smiles slips, becomes apprehensive, just as his eyes skitter off to all corners and everywhere but Al. "Cheeky. Can't I take an interest the life of my dear little brother, and--alright, fine, fine," he says before Al even has a chance to express his incredulity. Casts him a sideways, almost wary glance. "So, I might've . . . had it off with this bloke, and--"  
  
  
"You're joking!" Al barely recognizes his voice somewhere behind that high-pitched squeak. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again. James is now gazing straight at him intently, lacking the (almost always inappropriate) good humor he's known for.   
  
  
And everything--his clothes, his hair are disheveled in that tell-tale way that Al had already noticed . . . no, this isn't one of James's pranks. "Bloody hell! Might've, or did?"  
  
  
James searches his eyes for a few long moments then lays his head back down, pinching the bridge of his nose again. "Did."  
  
  
"Bloody fucking hell." Al shakes his head and tries to settle his churning stomach. "Merlin, was this tonight?"  
  
  
"A few hours ago, yeah . . . I was at a Muggle club, and. . . ." Another pinch, and James doesn't sound as if he's sure he's bragging or regretting. "I was dancing with this girl, and he cut in, and . . . I let him. By the time our third song was over, we were in this dark corner, and . . . the mouth on him, Albus! Merlin's  _bones_ \--"  
  
  
"Stop! No details! La-la-la! I'm under a stone-ears jinx! La-la-la!" Al jams his index fingers in his ears--and closes his eyes for good measure. Doesn't open them till an expensive cushion hits him square in the face.  
  
  
"Don't be such a baby," James says waspishly. "I listened to you moan about that git, Malfoy, so just shut up and pretend that I'm having an identity crisis, and that you're  _not_  a selfish, immature little sod, yeah?"  
  
  
 _Why don't you come over here, and make me?_  is very nearly Al's reply, but he counts to ten slowly, under James's glare and finally pulls himself together. "Well. Congratulations. I hope you used  _Prohpylaxis_. Or at least one of those condom-things."  
  
  
"I'm not a  _complete_  imbecile, thanks." Though the look on Al's face surely says otherwise. James sighs. "Yes, I was careful, alright? I was casting  _Prophylaxis_  before you had hair  _down there_. So I don't need a lecture on preventing STIs from my little brother, please and thank you."  
  
  
"You need  _something_ , or you wouldn't be here, damaging my psyche. Identity crisis, did you say?" Al lets his eyebrows say what he thinks of that. "There's nothing wrong with liking cock, you know. I'm quite fond of it, myself. Well, one cock, in particular."  
  
  
James makes seasick face. "Spare me. And feel free to stop saying 'cock' at anytime."  
  
  
"Cock, cock, cock, huge, gigantic cock," Al deadpans, just to see how much further the level of maturity in the room can plummet.  
  
  
Not too much farther, going by the look on  _James_ 's face. "It's for these helpful bromides that I turn to you, dearest brother."  
  
  
After a few seconds of stubborn sneering, they both grin--then laugh, and the tension that'd been between them is gone. Al pushes his hair out of his face yet again, suddenly and completely forgiving James for his most recent petty transgressions. "Look, I meant it, you know. If you like co--er, being with other blokes in  _that way_ , there's nothing wrong with that. No one's had much of a problem with me, after all."  
  
  
"Yes, well, half the family, me included, had you figured for a poofter from birth. Besides which, you're  _Albus_. You're allowed to be different from every bloody other Potter and Weasley that went before you." But he winks, and that takes the sting out of it. "Albus without the weird wouldn't be any kind of Albus at all."  
  
  
"Er . . . thank you?"  
  
  
James waves his hand dismissively. "Anyway. That's why I need you to tell me how you knew you were queer, and when."  
  
  
Al scratches his wrist; winces as he encounters shallow gouges left by a rather enthusiastic Scorpius just a couple of hours ago. "I've always known. Deep down, in that place where you don't have to think, you just  _know_  things about yourself. I've always known I was gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide."  
  
  
"Be serious, pillock." But James is obviously holding back laughter.  
  
  
"Honestly, I never really  _thought_  about it, or what it meant. At least not consciously--not until, well, the middle of Second Year, when I . . . you know. Started having dreams. Though they were all about Scorpius, never any other boy."  
  
  
" _The git_  was your first--and only wank fantasy?" James looks almost personally offended. "Bloody hell, Albus! Malfoy's nothing special now, and he wasn't anything special at twelve: brooding, cold, morbid--always hiding behind his hair as if we all hadn't already noticed he's the spit and image of his Necromancer, blood-purist grandfather--"  
  
  
"Lucius isn't a Necromancer, he never was,” Al says quietly, and James's sits up, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.  
  
  
" _Lucius_ , is it?" Yes, James has  _that_  look. The one that says sunrise might find a Wizards' Duel in this flat. The one that makes him look a lot more like their father--and more significantly--than Al ever will. "He's a blood-purist Dark Wizard who trafficked with a Necromancer--nearly saw him in control of not just the Wizarding World, but the Muggle World, as well. The only reason he turned traitor to the cause he believed in enough make attempts on  _the lives of our parents_ , and their friends, is because Voldemort was loony enough to threaten his precious heir--"  
  
  
"I'm not saying," Al cuts in through gritted teeth. "That Scorpius's grandfather is an innocent lambkins, wrongly maligned. But neither is he a Necromancer."  
  
  
James throws up his hand, his features settling into a neutral mask. "Split hairs, if you like, Albus, you've always been very good at that. But I'll tell you--even your bloody boyfriend doesn't like or trust the man, and they're related by blood. Yet you think you've got him all figured out, do you? Believe what you will, then, just . . . be careful. If nothing else, he's an opportunist, and a murderer."  
  
  
"Jamie--"  
  
  
James shakes his head once. "Accepting your poor taste in boyfriends is one thing. But I can promise you, you  _will not_  change my opinion of Lucius Malfoy. So let it be."  
  
  
"As you like." Said with no little asperity and a dearth of graciousness. And yes, Al knows he's not being incredibly adult about James's--some might says utterly spot-on—assessment of Lucius Malfoy. But it rankles that James has never really believed he could look after himself, or judge people for himself. And even if he  _can't_ , James's own judgment could scarcely be termed an improvement.  
  
  
When the awkward silence has drawn out for several minutes--and they've scrutinized every object in the room but each other--James clears his throat. "So you've  _really_  never wanted anyone besides Scorpius, then?"  
  
  
It trembles on the tip of Al's tongue to tell James to go screw himself to the nearest wall . . . but he finds it in himself to be civil. If only because it makes him the better man, and the more mature brother. "Yes, only him. It took me a few years to realize that I'd gone and fallen in love, of course, but . . . there's never been anyone else."   
  
  
" _No one_  else?" James is suddenly leaning forward, his eyes as serious as they've ever been, as if something important hinges on Al's answer.  
  
  
As if even after four years,  _he_  can change  _Al's_  opinion of Scorpius.  
  
  
Al unclenches his jaw, and tries not to grit his teeth in annoyance. Even Mum'd come 'round eventually. No one lasted long against Scorpius's peremptory charm. No one except James. "Only Scorpius."  
  
  
James hangs his head for a moment, his shoulders sagging. When he next speaks, his voice is oddly even. "If you've never been with, or wanted to be with another man . . . how do you even know you're queer?"  
  
  
Nonplussed, all Al can do is shrug, his anger tentatively melting away as he remembers the reason for James's questions. "I--I know that Scorpius is male, and that I've always been attracted to him. Yet if he were to be suddenly turned into a woman . . . it'd take some getting used to, but I can assure you I would. The thought of being with Scorpius no matter how he looks is highly arousing to me. Inversely, the thought of being with anyone who isn't Scorpius, no matter how attractive, does nothing for me at all. He's the apotheosis of everything I want in a partner. Anyone else would be a step both down and backwards."  
  
  
"Well. Isn't that wonderful." James makes another face and throws himself back into the cushions forcefully. "But it still doesn't tell me whether I'm queer, or not."  
  
  
"James, only  _you_  can know whether or not you're gay, but . . . look, did you bugger the bloke, or did the bloke bugger you?"  
  
  
James's eyes widen, and he turns such a bright red even Al can see it without glasses or proper light. "What a thing to ask, for someone who isn't keen on details!"  
  
  
Al rolls his eyes ceiling-ward, a rarely heeded prayer for the patience to deal with his brother. Though finally, after all their lives, making Shameless-James blush is rather satisfying. "Look, you wanted a quick litmus test for figuring out if you're queer? Well, most men like to fuck their partner, or to get a blowjob--that's a fair generalization, right? Even if it's someone you're not attracted to, you can close your eyes, think of England, and get off. With me so far?"  
  
  
That blush isn't clearing even slightly; James looks impossibly gobsmacked. "Who are you, and what have you done with my naïve, innocent little brother?"  
  
  
"But not everyone likes  _being_  fucked, and certainly not everyone likes sucking cock.  _Even_  if it's someone they're attracted to. So if you did either or both, and enjoyed it, that means you're  _really_  into this person whom you've only just met, or . . . you're  _really_ into cock. I trust you can follow my point to its logical conclusion without further prodding."  
  
  
Despite that alarmed-cod look on James's face, obviously that trust isn't misguided. Watching the sickle drop behind the unusually worried eyes is just a teeny bit gratifying. And Al is surprised to also feel . . . protective of his older brother, who's never needed protecting in life, except from his own instinct for mischief.  
  
  
Groaning, James bites his lip until he must let it go, or taste blood. "So I think I might . . . be kinda bent," he says hesitantly, and Al admires him more in that moment than he ever has, which is saying something.  
  
  
"Yes, I think you might be kinda bent, too," he agrees gently. James groans again, pulling a cushion over his face as if to smother himself before lobbing it over the back of the couch.  
  
  
"I can't be queer! What would our parents say?"   
  
  
"Undoubtedly something silly and unintentionally hurtful, at first. Nature of the beast, and all." Al smiles encouragingly when James suddenly sits up again, bracing his hands on his knees. He must really be worried. James  _never_  fidgets. "In the end . . . you're their son. Their first-born. They'll always be proud of you—rightfully so--and they'll want you to be happy."  
  
  
James smiles limply. "And to carry on the Potter name and tradition. And to give thems dozens of grandchildren. And to be like Grandpa James. And--"  
  
  
"Jamie," Al says softly, halting what looks to be a long, and counterproductive rant. "What are we going to do about this?"  
  
  
James's left eyebrow shoots up. "We? Do? I don't see that there's anything for  _us to do_. I mean, it was a one-off. One, being the operative number. I'll just have to be careful not to let it happen again."  
  
  
Al levels his best glare at James. Mum's glare, which is hands down more unnerving than Dad's. "Leaving aside the fact that you cheated, yet again, on your girlfriend--a sweeter, smarter, better girl than you actually deserve--you cheated on your girlfriend with a  _man_!"  
  
  
That dismissive wave of his hand again, as if the difference is negligible. Were that the case, James wouldn't be here, now. "Operative word there being  _girlfriend_ , Al. I'm not engaged to be married. Mags and I don't even live together. She knows that I'm still sowing my wild oats, that I sometimes have birds on the side--"  
  
  
" _Birds_ , not blokes." Al tugs on his hair in frustration at that stubbornly blank look on James's face. "She's got no idea the deck's stacked against her. That's unfair, James. It's cruel, and cowardly, and beneath you."  
  
  
"What--I'm supposed to just break her heart, when I don't even know if I'm bent, just that a bloke sucked me off and I liked it, and I returned the favor and liked that, too?" James laughs miserably. "Someday, little brother, you and reality will cross paths, and I don't know which of you will be more surprised."  
  
  
Al bristles, but refuses to let James side-track him with insults. "I'm not saying you have to leave Mags, just that you need to be honest to her about not knowing what you want, you dozy twonk."  
  
  
"Well, telling her's as good as leaving her, isn't it? It's forcing her to leave  _me_!" James looks down at his hands. Clenches them helplessly on his knees. "I  _can't_  turn my whole life upside down over a one-off, Al. I can't. It'd ruin me in ways I can't even begin to illustrate."  
  
  
There's a world of hurt in his voice, and that hurt hurts Al for two different reasons, the most obvious being that he doesn't enjoy seeing his brother in turmoil. The other being that even after all these years and all his professed sanguinity with homosexuality, James isn't as accepting as Al had thought. "If tumbling an entire football stadium's worth of girls hasn't made you straight, one night, and one bloke doesn't make you gay, either. Not everything in life  _has_  to be either/ or."  
  
  
Dark, determined,  _tired_  eyes meet Al's. "Sometimes it does."  
  
  
"You and Lily . . . such bloody Gryffindors. What a curse I dodged." Al jumps up before he says something he regrets. Paces toward the fireplace, torn between anger and grief that one of the two people he's always counted on to think the best of him . . . doesn't. Maybe never has. "Just because  _you_  think less of yourself for  _maybe_  being queer doesn't mean everyone else will. Liking men won't make you a moral leper in the eyes of the wizarding world, only in your own."  
  
  
When no whining reply about his precious image is forthcoming, Al risks a look at his brother. Find James watching him carefully, a look of unhappy revelation on his face.  
  
  
"Al, you're the best person I know. You know that, right?" A frown that looks as unnatural on James's face as smiles tend to on Al's. "That I don't think there's anything wrong with being gay--”  
  
  
"Oh, is that what all this high dudgeon is about? You feeling perfectly fine with being gay?"  
  
  
"I'm not! We can't  _both_  be, alright! People would . . . talk," James adds before Al can ask  _why?_  Which doesn't stop him asking  _so?_ , and James sits back with an incredulous laugh. "What do you mean 'so'?"  
  
  
"I mean, Jamie, people are always saying things about our family: good, bad, and outlandish. And they always will. Hazards of the name. The wrong thing, would be to let that talk, or your own blasted pride keep you from what you truly want." Al walks back to the recliner, and scorns it in favor of a spot on the coffee table across from James--ignoring the livid Scorpius in his head, ranting about planting one's arse on a priceless, five hundred year old heirloom.   
  
  
James is watching him with slightly wary eyes, and Al tries not to think that this epiphany that should make them closer, will force an immovable wedge between them. "If what you want's a life with Mags, or some other woman--making a bunch of cute, irritating little Jameses, then go for it and don't look back. But if it's not, if you're not sure . . . then you need to find out what it is you  _really_ need and want, instead of settling for a default life that you'll only resent in later years.  _Get yourself sorted_  before you wreck Mags's life, or some other poor girl's--not to mention your own."  
  
  
"It's easy for you to say, isn't it? You've had your whole life to get used to this--have always known exactly what you did, and didn't want." The wariness in James's eyes has turned to anger, but shining clearly out of that anger is still hurt and desperation. "Some of us aren't so lucky as you, little brother."  
  
  
"Well, you're being given a chance to find out who you are now, and that's what matters! You have to be brave enough to take that chance, or you'll be the only one responsible for your unhappiness." When James scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest--the same infamous pose from that cover of  _Witch Weekly_ , only not shirtless--Al leans forward. "Alright. Imagine yourself twenty years in the future--into a marriage that you never wanted, with three kids you barely know . . . only to realize you can't go on pretending because you've gone absolutely mad over your best friend. And you'd do  _anything_  to be with him, even give up the only life you know-- "   
  
  
A petulant moue that makes Al want to slap him. "Shut it, I'm not Uncle Oliver."  
  
  
"Then stop living his life all over again!"  
  
  
"It was one night, Albus! One  _time_!" James shouts--bellows, really. He's got the Weasley bellow. They all have, to Dad's dismay. Especially when put on the defensive.  
  
  
But summoning his patience isn't as hard as Al'd thought. He honestly can't imagine what James must be feeling, since he  _has_ always known what he wanted, if not how to go about getting it. But he can imagine that it's quite a horrible, unsettling thing. Especially for someone of James's normally unquestioning confidence in himself. "Right. It was one time, but can you promise it won't happen again?"  
  
  
James looks like he's about to start shouting again, but then his shoulders slump and he covers his face with his hands. Runs them back into his messy hair. "Being with that bloke was . . . educational. But I'm not queer," he says in a firm, sure voice that doesn't sound remotely like a lie. Still, Al's not buying it.  
  
  
"But--but what if you fall in  _love_ , Jamie?" James flinches, and Al feels guilty for reasons he can't put his finger on. And yet again, he's unable to read James's hooded dark eyes and mood. "What if you meet a man you  _really_  fancy, and. . . ."  
  
  
"That won't ever happen," James says, too calm and obviously tense.  
  
  
"But you can't  _know_ \--"  
  
  
"Yes, I do. Period, full stop."   
  
  
"But  _how_ \--" Al frowns, his eyes narrowing in realization. "James, is there . . . someone you  _already_  have feelings for?"  _Merlin, it's not Teddy, is it? The two of them were thick as thieves since forever, and--please don't let it be our_ cousin _, that would be far too distur--_  
  
  
Al doesn't notice James take out his wand till it's jabbing him right in the Adam's apple. He suddenly remembers that, disinterest in his studies aside, James is intimidatingly fast with a hex or a curse--consistently had some of the best DADA marks of his Year. Could've had the best if he'd cared to.  
  
  
Al swallows around the tip of James's wand--ten inches of sturdy, unassuming holly, almost identical to their father's, only with a dragon heart-string core, instead of a phoenix feather--and licks his lips nervously. "Is this your, er, subtle way of telling me to back off?"  
  
  
James leans a little closer, till he's a smear that reeks of drink and cheap cologne. Only . . .  _James_  doesn't wear cologne, cheap or otherwise . . . eurgh. "And they say I'm the clever one."  
  
  
The wand disappears and James sits back slowly. Al rubs his throat, which throbs in tandem with the back of his head and his shin. "No, they say  _Lily's_  the clever one. I'm the responsible one, and you're the charming one."  
  
  
"Obviously we've been talking to different people." James tries to quip, but it just comes out defensive and faintly embarrassed. "Really, I'll be alright, Al, I just need time to sober up, and . . . everything'll make sense again. I'll be in control again."  
  
  
 _I doubt that,_  Al thinks, but merely nods. He doesn't appreciate it when James tries to tell him how to run his life, and so doubts the reverse would be welcome. "If you say so. Just—I'm here if you ever need to talk about it, or vent, or if you have questions--even if they're sex questions that make me squirm."  
  
  
"I know," James says, and smiles. "You're the best bloke I know--my best friend, really. Don't ever think I don't appreciate you, and respect the bloody hell out of you. But I've made up my mind on this."  
  
  
And he has. James doesn't take the hard line about many things--Lucius Malfoy and Quidditch are the only things that come immediately to mind—but when he does, he sticks by his decisions.  
  
  
A Gryffindor, through and through, sadly.  
  
  
"Alright, then. I'll stand by your choice," Al murmurs. And what's truly sad isn't that James thinks he can choose to not be attracted to his own gender--or that anyone can. No, what's truly sad is that despite his denials, James is shaping up  _exactly_  like Uncle Oliver. Heading into years--maybe even decades of an unhappy lie of a life.  
  
  
Maybe one without a Charlie Weasley waiting at the other end of it.  
  
  
"So . . . seriously, no one else? Not even that pretty Finnigan lad, with the big eyes and the  _walk_?"  
  
  
"What?" Al blinks back wetness that is  _not_  tears, and James is leaning close again, in a cloud of whisky and cologne that should be unpleasantly dizzying, but is merely dizzying. A bit disorienting. "What're you on about?"  
  
  
"He was in Lily's year at Hogwarts. Curly blond hair, dark blue eyes, fit--flash, even in his school uniform. A walk that damn near restored my faith in humanity. . . ."  
  
  
" _Aidenn_  Finnigan? Merlin, no!" Al shudders. As changes of subject go, that was unsubtle, but effective. "If I had a type, Aidenn wouldn't be it."  
  
  
James, likely musing on the aforementioned walk--the sort that no Fourth Year should have had the assets to carry off, but Aidenn had and  _did_ \--smiles distractedly, in a way that doesn't bode well for his attempt at heterosexuality. "What about when I set you up on that date-thing with him . . . when was it, four years ago, now?"  
  
  
Al grimaces. "Except for the time he tried to stick his hand down my trousers at Puddifoot's, he spent the whole date pumping me for information about  _you_."  
  
  
James brightens a little. "Really? You never said."  
  
  
"As if that ego needed more inflating." Al yawns mightily, and a wave of sleepiness washes over him. He was already tired, but trying to untangle James's sexuality--unsuccessfully--takes a lot out of a person. He can't imagine how James must feel. "Foolish wand-waving aside, you're in no shape to be Flooing or Apparating anywhere--especially to Mags's. So it's the guest room, for you, old sot."  
  
  
"That's a nice way to speak to your guest." The sparkle is back in James's eye now, and even though nothing is resolved--at least not for longer than the next time James finds himself on his knees in a Muggle club--Al is happy that for once, he may have helped put it there. Anything else will have to be settled in time, and James himself.  
  
  
All Al can do, for now, is support James in whatever way he asks, and help pick up the pieces if ever, whenever.  
  
  
"You're not my guest, you're my big brother," he says , then grins. "I can speak to you any way I like."   
  
  
"Is that right?" James lunges forward to grab Al by the wrists, and pulls him to the couch, tackling him and shaking him. Al laughs helplessly, trying to wriggle out from under James, and only managing to get his tee-shirt bunched up, and his cut-offs and pants pushed down to a point that verges on indecent.  
  
  
"Geroff! You stink of that munter's cologne!" His voice has gone squeaky and wheezy, his vision blurry with tears. But he can tell James is grinning down at him.  
  
  
"Oi, remember that time I tickled you till you wet yourself?" James asks, straddling Al's narrow hips and poising his fingers over unpadded, unguarded ribs. He's smirking in a way that's meant  **trouble**  as far back as Al can remember.  
  
  
He hastily pulls his shirt down and crosses his arms over his ribs. "How could I forget, you Quaffle-headed bully."  
  
  
"Must've been  _dead_  embarrassing even to a six year old. I can't imagine what that'd do to your ego, now. . . ." Albus's eyes narrow, and he lets loose with a stream of profanity that makes James's eyes widen appreciatively. "Tsk-tsk, is that what Malfoy's been teaching you to do with your mouth? And I thought he had higher aspirations than  _that_. Say uncle, or it's the fingers for you, my son."  
  
  
"I'll say twat, 'cos that's what you are--agh! Stop!" Al shrieks, catching James's wrists as the fingers descend. His face feel hot, and his skin's tingling in anticipation of the undignified treatment he's about to receive. “You're a bastard!”  
  
  
“And you're observant.” James breaks his grip easily and applies fingers to heaving ribs--though he seems unprepared for Al trying to buck him off, and nearly falls off couch and brother.  
  
  
"Merlin's saggy left--" he starts, grabbing the back of the couch and Al's arm for purchase. "You'd think I was trying to murder you! Honestly--you're ridiculous."  
  
  
“Says--the man--who's never--pissed himself.” Al is gulping air, his eyes squinched shut. Weak giggles keep slipping out and random muscles twitch all over his body. "Murdering me'd be a kindness if Scorpius ever found out I soiled this couch."  
  
  
James grunts, but doesn't attack Al's ribs again. "He must be a spectacular fuck for you to put up with that level of up-his-own-arse-ness," he says, not without grudging sympathy.  
  
  
"Oh, he's a bloody  _machine_  when he's not dead tired . . . or when he's not being startled by random owls," Al agrees, then squints suspiciously. James is staring off into the fireplace. "That doesn't mean you're allowed to fancy him, though."  
  
  
An amused snort, and James's regard settles on him once more, like a blanket. "No worries on that score. I'm not partial to blonds." He--almost reluctantly, it seems--gets off of Al, who merely lays there, face still red, ribs still covered.  
  
  
"I bloody well hate you, James Potter."  
  
  
From the other end of the couch, James chuckles. "Aw, I hate you too, little brother."  
  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
  
"Yes, but what would Malfoy say when he found out?"   
  
  
"Pervert. You should shower before you go to sleep." Al sits up, and gets a whiff of himself. He smells like sex and butterbeer, and _Scorpius_. "We both should."  
  
  
"What—together?" James seems amused and alarmed all at once.  
  
  
"Yes, then you can scrub my back for me." Al yawns again. "Berk."   
  
  
"Tut-tut, you're only upset because you're adopted.  _Scourgify_." As the spell runs across his skin like sandpaper, leaving tingling, pinkened skin it its wake--James really is enviably powerful, and it's a bloody damned shame that he has no interest in honing that power with study, or at least tempering it with discipline--he settles deep into the couch. Which is considerably more comfortable than it looked in Malfoy Manor.  
  
  
He props his bare feet up on the coffee table, upsetting James's trainer.  
  
  
What Scorpius doesn't know won't kill Al. Theoretically.  
  
  
" _You're_  adopted," he says belatedly, rolling his head just enough to watch James watch him back. "You're really half troll, and half blasted-ended skrewt, you know. Aunt 'Mione and Mum just spelled you to look like a human boy to keep you out of a Muggle-style sideshow."  
  
  
"Sure, they did." James swings his legs up so that his feet dangle over the arm of the couch, and lays his head in Al's lap, his face turned toward the fire. "Whatever lets you sleep at night without being eaten alive by jealousy."   
  
  
Al grunts distractedly, too startled to for a decent insult. He and James have only sat like this once . . . in the summer after James's Second Year, when he finally, finally admitted to having second thoughts about playing Seeker.  
  
  
They'd stayed up all night like that: James blurting out every foggy-voiced, Quidditch related fear--and there were  _many_ \--in the quiet of Uncle Ron's old room at the Burrow. Al listening, stroking James's hair and occasionally murmuring support.  
  
  
But once it was all out--once James accepted that he'd never be the Seeker everyone told him he was, he'd single-mindedly made himself over into the Beater no one but Al had known he  _could_  be. From that day on, James hasn't shown a moment of doubt, or despair. Hasn't let himself be vulnerable. Consequently, they haven't sat like this since.   
  
  
He'd forgotten how fine and soft James's hair is, unlike his own thick, coarse mop.   
  
  
 _Hmm_ -ing, he runs his fingers through it a few times, and James seems to relax into the couch. Into Al.  
  
  
 _Everything's going to be alright._  Al is suddenly certain.  
  
  
In silence broken only by the merry crackle of the fire, their breathing evens out quickly. Al's head lolls back into the cushions, his carding of James's hair slowing to an infrequent stroke.  
  
  
"Al?"  
  
  
A low whisper that barely stirs Al from a deepening half-sleep, even though Jamie feels tense against him, unnaturally still. "Huhmm?"  
  
  
". . . I love you. . . ."  
  
  
"Hmm . . . love you, too." Albus renews his hair-carding automatically, not even stopping when the tension melts away again, and the stillness becomes random tremors.  
  
  
"More than Quidditch, Albie. More than  _anything_ ," Jamie adds in that same funny, foggy sounding voice from all those years ago. Considering the hours he keeps and his apparent allergy to weather-appropriate clothing, he's probably coming down with the sniffles, or some sort of virus. Which means now Al's going to get it. But he can't be arsed to care . . . much.  
  
  
" _I love you_ ," James says again, quiet, and fierce.  
  
  
Conscious thoughts are already slipping under feelings of warmth and contentment. And James really does have such soft, soft hair.  
  
  
"'S nice, Jamie."  
  
  
Al's asleep in seconds.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
"Don't you have a flat of your own to be hungover in?"  
  
  
It  _must_  be afternoon, judging by the overabundance of sunlight. As it is, James's eyes are gritty, too tired to makes sense of so much light. The economical whip-crack of Malfoy's Apparation had woken him up, but it was a near thing.  
  
  
His head is . . . achey, but not awful. And Malfoy is . . . scowling down at him rather impressively. It's still odd to see him in Auror Trainee robes, with the regulation haircut that accentuates his infamous, forbidding face clearly, rather than hides it.   
  
  
"Keep frowning like that,  _Scorpius_ , and those tiny lines at your mouth and nose will wear permanent."  
  
  
Malfoy's eyes widen, and his hand flies to his face before he can stop himself. Then he scowls even harder when James snickers. “I don't know what has you so tickled,  _James. You_  look like the wrong end of a sick crup, and you smell like a whorehouse.”  
  
  
"Ooh, not very nice to your in-laws, are you?"  
  
  
A sneer that's more bored, and tired than anything else. Or maybe just more tired: faint, greyish circles around reddened eyes, bone structure rather too apparent . . . Malfoy looks like hell. For Malfoy, anyway. "On the contrary. I find Lily utterly delightful, your parents kind, and your extended family charming, if a bit exuberant. The only worm--and I do choose my words quite deliberately--in the Potter-Weasley apple is  _you_."  
  
  
James thinks that over. Smiles. He'd only cast that  _Scourgify_  on Al, so he wouldn't have to smell this git on his brother's skin. He hadn't bothered to cast it on himself. If he smells half as bad as his mouth tastes. . . . “Blimey, you're right, for once. I need a shower."  
  
  
Malfoy nods facetiously. "I whole-heartedly concur. Don't they have those back at  _your_  flat?"  
  
  
"Albus lives here, too, you know."  
  
  
A cold, sickle-sharp smile, and Malfoy shrugs off his robe, tossing it at Al's recliner. Just by the act of wearing them, he manages to make even the regulation grey-and-black tunic and trousers look like fancy, high society togs. “Yes, but he's out at the moment, as even  _your_  drink-addleded senses should've informed you.”  
  
  
Frowning, James struggles upright to find that Al is indeed gone. In his place is a formidable pile of cushions. On the floor is a heap of blankets James must've shrugged off at some point--  
  
  
Some point after not-crying himself to sleep silently, so as not to wake up Al--who'd snored on cluelessly, anyway . . . his hand a heavy, comforting weight on James's head, his bony leg a better pillow than James has ever had. And will likely never have again.  
  
  
He'd tried to stay awake as long as he could, knowing that he'd probably never get another chance to be like this. To lay there and pretend that this was how the rest of his life would be: coming home to Albus, falling asleep with him. Knowing that, no matter what else, this was one person that was not only on his side without reservation, but would be his and no one else's.  
  
  
Like back in that summer before Third Year . . . long before James's brotherly feelings had warped into something more . . . something that infects every area of his life, even Quidditch. He never plays as hard as when he knows Al's in the stands, cheering him on.  
  
  
He doesn't realize he's been staring dejectedly into the blankets until Malfoy clears his throat discreetly, recalling him to the present. The git's taken up residence in Al's recliner like a king on his throne. It makes James want to strangle him.  
  
  
Malfoy rolls his eyes and sighs. “Merlin, but you're transparent, Potter.”  
  
  
“So are you. Thus I'm amazed Al can't see what a horrid little guttersnipe you are.”  
  
  
“Albus sees me very well,” Malfoy says softly, with a small smile that lacks a chill or malice, and so sits strangely on his face. “And he loves me in spite of--maybe  _because_  he sees me so clearly . . . so you really ought to make an effort to get over it, right?”  
  
  
James's glare skitters off Malfoy, to the long-dead fire in the hearth. His face feels hot, and not just because of the sunlight. The pile of blankets lays on the floor like a wish unfulfilled. “Get over what?”  
  
  
“Hmm. The sooner, the better, I'm thinking.” Merlin, James can even  _hear_  the sneer in Malfoy's deep voice. Hear amused contempt dripping off of every rounded vowel. “Lest I'm forced put aside dislike for pity.”  
  
  
All sorts of alarm bells go off in James's mind, but--no. No one knows. Not Al, not their parents . . . and certainly not Malfoy. He's just got a Slytherin's gift for making  _everything_  sound like an insinuation. “At last, we've found a common ground: neither of us knows what the bloody hell you're talking about.”  
  
  
“Oh, don't we?” There's a hint of something melancholy in Malfoy's amusement, and an almost deferential sort of irony. Both are quickly replaced by Malfoy's customary bored indifference, but not before James's stomach rises to his throat, then sinks precipitously. “My mistake, then. Now, if you'd be  _so_  good as to toddle along, so I can cast  _Fumigus_  on everything Albus and I own, thank you. . . .”  
  
  
“You're a real bastard, you know!” Merlin, even if Malfoy's just being a Malfoy, and casting aspersions he doesn't believe merely to embarrass and discomfit--  
  
  
“I was conceived in wedlock, for your information.” That haughty, upward tilt of chin that signifies this exchange is over, and Malfoy considers himself the victor. “Now, if there's nothing else. . . .”  
  
  
“You'd better keep whatever it is you think you know to yourself, Malfoy!” James explodes, other, darker words on his lips, words that'd get even Harry Potter's son penned in Azkaban for the rest of his natural life. But Malfoy--who is many things, few of them admirable--is damnably fast in a Duel, as James has learned first hand. So before he can even be proud of himself for not tossing out  _Sectumsempra_  with every bit of will in him, there's thirteen inches of tapered willow pointed steadily at him.  
  
  
“Let me hasten to assure: you would lose,” Malfoy says in that same, indifferent tone. But there's nothing like indifference in his eyes however, nor in the feral curl of lips over teeth. “And the last thing either of us wants to do is anything that'd break your brother's heart. So, run along, and we'll see you at the Burrow for Sunday Brunch, as per usual.”  
  
  
After a few seconds James looks away, muttering  _Apparate_  without the pretense of reaching for his wand. Lands in his own bedroom and bed with a bounce. For a long time, he only lays there, his head filled with white noise, his stomach with rue.  
  
  
Suddenly, he can smell that Muggle bloke all over him and thinks  _Scourgify_  hard enough to leave his skin irritated and dry. But tells himself that he can still smell  _Albus_  on his skin, a mixture of new parchment, random potions ingredients, and pennyroyal tea. . . .  
  
  
A thousand Muggle blokes with vacuum-cleaner mouths wouldn't have a patch on the sense memory of Al.  
  
  
He can still feel Al under him again, squinting near-sightedly, askew clothing revealing pale skin over sturdy bone that could do with some padding.   
  
  
James aches at the thought of touching—or tasting—that point of hip, or the trail of dark hair leading beneath the worn shorts. Of stilling every shiver and quaver with his own body . . . smothering every giggle with a kiss.  
  
  
He tortures himself for the better part of an hour, trying to imagine a response other than disgust and horror, had he leaned down and simply done either of those things . . . and can't.  
  
  
His next door neighbor slams a door hard, and he jumps. For some reason, living in a Muggle neighborhood had seemed like a good idea two years ago. After all, when they were little, he and Al used to talk about getting an apartment in Muggle London just as soon as they were old enough. They'd have adventures and never, ever be apart. . . .  
  
  
“I've  _already_  lost,” he says, rolling onto his side. “You pompous, inbred, Thestral's arse.”  
  
  
Never getting the last word with Malfoy is one of many things James finds unpalatable, but knows he can't change. And it's not even the worst thing, after all.  
  
  
The feelings that've held him captive for the past three years is briefly exchanged for a familiar, near total detachment. This faux-zen has occasionally made it possible to lose himself in many forms of oblivion, though sleep was never a tough nut to crack, anyway. And never mind what dreams may come.  
  
  
There's time enough, tomorrow to start the likely impossible task of putting this morning, last night, and the past three years behind him. Get on with living the life that's been laid out for him. The wife, the kids, the whole works—forget trying it on with another bloke. It'd just be a torturous, constant reminder of the one person he wants more than anything, but can never have.  
  
  
He curls up under Gran Molly's comforter, and blinks tiredly in the gloomy dimness of his curtained bedroom. Listens to his neighbor rearrange furniture, or maybe juggle it.  
  
  
The last thing he sees before sleep takes him isn't reciprocated yearning in lively green eyes—or even concern in Mags's dark, kind eyes--but knowing amusement radiating from eyes as warm and grey as iced-over slate.  
  
  
 _”You really ought to make an effort to get over it, right?”_  
  
  
Right.   
  
  
Scorpius Malfoy: proof positive that even a broken clock can be right twice in one day.  
  
  
No more blokes.  _Period._  
  
  
Full stop.  
  



End file.
